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Ghent
Ghent
For a little while now he'd been watching the dodgy procession of cars' headlights coming through the arcade and taking a right turn there on the other side of what was commonly called 'zuidpark' - south park - before he understood what it was. It was the 8 o'clock movie theatre crowd heading home. He hadn't even wondered. Instead, the insight had dawned on him just like that.
He made a mental note to check again tomorrow. See if he could set his clock by it. Which of course was ridiculous, he realized. He'd come here from a different world with a different set of instincts. Where he had grown up he had learned as a boy to tell the time and weather from the light and noises in the woods that permeated his small bedroom. A sudden interruption of bird screaks almost always meant the proximity of humans.
This environment worked differently, though. Still, he felt he kept at it. Employing his instincts to try and read this new place like a wild cat would snatched out of the woods to be put in a zoo. Eight stories down on Franklin Rooseveltlaan the rain had let up but the tires from passing cars slushing through the water on the asphalt were still smothering the city noises that he was waiting for. It wasn't easy, getting a feel for this town, or any town for that matter. He'd realized his mistake the minute he and the real estate agent had stepped in the apartment. In retrospect, he hadn't started to feel forlorn until right that moment which now contributed to his bitterness and frustration. Of course he'd waved those first emotions away thinking they would subside. But they hadn't.
Curious, he'd gone out that first night in town, now a week ago. He'd asked his agent where to go expecting him to tell him to go east or west. Instead, he'd been told to walk through numberless little streets taking turn after turn. The town had an old-world feel to it and without the bustle from American cities. It was laid-back, as promised, but he couldn't read it. He'd sat down on the square in front of the cathedral and watched. It had been 7 pm and dark. He'd found the look of the bars there funny, he remembered now. Little did he know that they were all going to be like that. He'd watched the cars too and had tried to let their design speak to him but he'd found them to be mute. He'd studied the people that were walking by with a calm deliberateness and had wondered what they felt towards the surroundings. He knew now, after a week of thought that they'd been impervious or rather, part of the surroundings and not conscious of them.
That first night, he figured he'd step into the next bar, hide in the anonymity of near darkness and watch his silhouette get drunk in the mirror. But he didn't find a decent place to eat with booths to sit, much less the American type bar. So he settled for a place called 't Krochtje in the end. It wasn't half bad. True, it was lit-up and the curious clatter of music and conversation competing bothered him but most people looked streetwise minding their own business and he liked that.
He decided to go out in the rain and check out the spaghetti he'd seen other patrons have in 't Krochtje. He'd try and retrace the route he had taken on that first night. Maybe build a routine that he could hide in for familiarity and piece of mind. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the top of trendy Lammerstraat and took a right down Sint-Pietersnieuwstraat in the humid cold. A moment later he saw the bronze statue of the man with the hat and moustache. He had forgotten it was there. He stopped and stood there watching it. He had stopped there the first time somewhat liking the bronze man's relaxed, yet slightly defiant attitude. As he stood there the lost feeling from a week ago revisited him and he realized the past week had been so strange and hard, he felt like he'd grown ten years older.
A half hour later he was sitting on a stool nursing a beer and waiting for his spaghetti. Two stools to his left sat a man in his late twenties. The guy had probably overheard him ordering his beer in English and he felt the young man's apprehension as if he was waiting for the right cue to strike up a conversation. Without wanting to, he glanced to his left and the guy took the bait.
"Wasn't eavesdropping, just couldn't help overhearing. You're American, right? Name's Wim. Good to meet you."
Wim was a big man but without any imposing physicality. He was stocky with the soft facial features of many educated.
"How are you doing? I'm Jack."
There was a pause.
"It's funny. I've never run into an American here. Not anywhere in town for that matter. And what do you know? Right after I get back from a vacation in the U.S. I do find one." Wim smiled at this.
"I see. How was your trip?"
"Alright," Wim said unconvincingly.
"Where'd you go?"
Wim hesitated, sadly smiling at his thoughts again before answering: "Southeast roughly. Frankly, it was kind of a let-down. Thought I'd go in search of small-town America, you know, main street and all that. Spent two weeks on the road. Didn't find it. Ended up being a lonely trip."
"What places did you go to?"
"Well, I took a cheap flight down to Atlanta, Georgia and, you're probably not gonna believe this, I got a map of the Southeast and simply dropped a pin on it a few times. Where the point landed, that's where I went to. Let chance decide. Big mistake."
Jack didn't answer and Wim registered a sudden sadness in the old man. After a minute or so Wim said: "Where are you from and what brings you here, Jack?"
Jack turned his face to Wim and the young man saw in it what he now knew to be the hurt and shame of self-deception.
"Let's get another couple beers. I'll tell you a story," Jack said.
"Alright."
"I lost my wife last year. Haven't been the same."
A pause.
"Since she died, I have a feeling I need to be away too. Like I don't belong home anymore with her gone. Only thing is, we damn near never went anywhere, never traveled beyond the next town. So I didn't know where to go until I remembered the story of how our hometown got its name. You wanna know?" Jack looked at Wim but he knew his companion was all ears now.
"I'm from Ghent, West Virginia. In the nineteenth century ore was discovered in the state. So, mining companies rushed in, first for strip mining then deep mining and within a few years towns crawled out of the ground like weeds all over the state. Back where the new settlers founded our town they got carried away so bad, they forgot to give the place a name. Or they couldn't agree on a name. Something like that. So you know what they did in the end? They got a map of Europe, one guy held his hand before his eyes and let his index finger drop on a random place on the map." Jack took a moment.
Then he said: "You know where that finger landed, now don't you?"
feedback van andere lezers- GoNo2
Like it !
Jurgje: Echt? het is op ware feiten gebaseerd. - killea
Very nice indeed, Jurgen (He stopped and stood their (there) )
xx
j
Jurgje: Corrected it. Thanks a bunch! - Mephistopheles
I live in Gent
Nice story
Gr. - Victoria
A half hour, ik dacht altijd dat het half an hour was...
waarom schrijf je liever in het Engels?
ik heb tien jaar in Gent gewoond en ga er weer naar terugkeren. ik mis die stad gewoon te veel...
Jurgje: In het Amerikaans Engels is het "a half hour". Goed idee van terug te keren!!
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