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The ride through the French countryside at 100 mph was smooth and plush as we napped, the sunshine warming our cheeks after a crisp glass of Chardonnay. The miles flew by like a life’s story, too sleepy to capture the plot and yet the pictures remain embedded forever, though flying by at hundreds of miles per hour.

Before we could wipe the sleep from our eyes and the wine from our breath, we were in the chilly Brussels train station and suddenly boarding one of the clanky, blue and white trains that circumvent this ancient city. My wife was snuggled against me as we stood in the aisle, our backpacks at our feet, two lovers on a crowded commuter express.

She still smelled like Paris, like wine and roses, and diesel. Her long blonde hair so soft, and warm against my neck.

Belgians coughed and sneezed around us. The train was loud, and bumpy.  

According to Jenny’s map, the M train was supposed to take us near our hotel, but after two unruly stops the conductor finally stopped the train for good and said “end of the line”, or something to that effect. Before I could even get my backpack on my shoulders a short, tough-looking woman walked up to us and said, “You hast to get off zis train now and onto ze other. Follow me!”

Like blind sheep, still dazed from the Chardonnay, we followed her. She took us across some tracks and to the other side of the dark, underground platform and onto another extension of the M train. Once we were safely aboard and the train was rolling again the little woman said her name was Roxanne, and that she was from Romania, and an accountant.

She didn’t look like an accountant to me, more like a Romanian Mary Lou Retton who spoke funny English.

“Where arest ju staying?”

“The Hotel Mozart, near the city center.”

“I don’t know that area so badly,” she said, and giggled like a blonde pretending to be dumb. “I jes come to work today and so I good director for you.”

I looked at Jenny, who was busy studying her map and didn’t seem to notice anything odd about Roxanne, and then back to Roxanne, whose chocolate colored eyes were trained on my new belt, a creepy smile on here face. The train lurched to a stop, breaking her trance.

“Why do I now show you to your hotel?” she asked.

“What?”

The crowd was exiting the train and Jenny followed in behind Roxanne up the escalator to the street level. Once outside, the little Romanian instructed us to follow her.

“But, . . .” and Jenny stopped me from saying anything. Her coy smile told me to shut up and enjoy the experience, that somehow we were entertaining this woman. After walking in circles for what seemed a half hour, in and out of beer and chocolate stores asking for directions, we finally found the Hotel Mozart. There it was, hidden and and in plain view, located right in the heart of the Greek section of the city center in Brussels, which was now quiet in the dark, afternoon shadows.

In front of the Mozart and before I could thank her, Roxanne turned around curtly, pulled a thick envelope from her purse like a knife and held it out to me as if she wanted to stab me with it. “This is for you Mr. Wegs. Please take it.”

Stunned, I held out my hand as she dropped the white envelope into my waiting palm — it was as thick as a book and simply read, “Mr. Wegs”, in thick, black strokes, as from a Sharpie, on the front cover.

To be continued. . .

Tags: Belgium, Brussels, Chocolate, Europe, Fiction, Hotel Mozart, Non-Fiction, Train, Trains, What?