Morning in Bruges by Leah Mueller
Image | Leticia Curvello
Morning in Bruges
7:38 AM is too early for coffee. Cafes remain locked, their overhead lights extinguished. Gothic buildings exude a silent, accusatory air. A stone clock tower hovers like a malevolent gargoyle. Ceaseless, spitting rain drools across shop window panes.
The enormous town square has magically come alive without caffeine. Bicyclists tear across the cobblestones, ignoring foot traffic. As I gaze around the perimeter, a rider almost hits me. He swerves abruptly and throws both hands into the air.
“Get out of my way! Goddamn tourists.”
Americans move sluggishly, while pointing at landmarks with our cell phones. We hover beside landmarks, mouths agape. Pedestrians must dodge to avoid colliding with our oversized bodies. I’m not proud to be part of such a myopic lot. Still, there’s no denying that I walk like a tourist.
Picking a random street, I shuffle towards a row of shops. So many choices. Chocolates in tidy, colorful rows. Garish tee-shirts. Postcards. Woolen scarves. No coffee.
A man notices my distress. “Can I help? Sorry for intruding, but you look lost.”
He’s tall, ramrod thin, and blonde, perhaps in his late 50s. Impeccably dressed, sporting creased trousers and immaculate athletic shoes. His face looks open, even benevolent.
“Coffee,” I manage to croak out. “Do you know where I can find any?”
“Come with me, I’ll show you my favorite morning spot.” He glances at his watch. “It
doesn’t open for twenty minutes. We can chat in the meantime.”
He falls into step beside me. “You’re from the US, right? I’m originally from Norway, but my husband and I moved here five years ago.”
“Yeah, I’m taking a Eurail trip. It’s a pilgrimage of sorts. I’m working through a lot of emotional stuff.”
So far, my highly anticipated adventure has been as enjoyable as a canoe trip across the River Styx. I spend most of my time wandering aimlessly amongst people who can’t understand what I’m saying. Using the bathroom involves digging in my money belt for unfamiliar coins. What had I been hoping to discover?
“My name is Elnar. I’m a grief counselor,” the man explains. “I wrote a book after my mother died. You’ve probably never heard of it. I didn’t sell many copies. Mostly a labor of love.”
Elnar stares at me with an inquisitive expression, as if trying to gauge my reaction. His gaze is direct but not intimidating. It starts to shower harder. Rainwater cascades towards gutters, picking up twigs and litter along the way. The cobblestones radiate an otherworldly brilliance.
“She died last year. Most folks don’t really process grief. That’s what my book is about.”
“Well, that’s serendipitous. My husband died from cancer, three years ago in May. I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Most of my friends don’t want to discuss it anymore. People don’t talk honestly about death. We use ridiculous euphemisms like ‘pass away.’ I hate that.”
“I’m sorry. That must be painful. How long were you married?”
“Seventeen years. I took care of him until the end.” Another gross understatement. I changed my husband’s diapers during the last two weeks of his life. Mopped his forehead with a damp washcloth. Rolled over his emaciated body to slow down the growth of his bedsores.
“Such a gift to your husband.” Elnar’s voice is soothing, like I’m one of his clients. “I wish I could have done the same. I had to put my mother into a home during the last months of her life. It was the best one I could find. The two of us saw each other every day. Last time I visited, she waved goodbye from her bedroom window, on the top floor. That’s how I want to remember her. Standing in the window with a big smile on her face. I don’t like to visit graveyards.”
We stop in front of a tiny, shuttered café. Employees bustle around its cluttered interior, preparing to unlock the doors. I hear a faint clatter of plates and silverware. One by one, the lights begin to illuminate, casting bright rays on the wet sidewalk.
“They’re almost ready to open,” Elnar says. “Enjoy your coffee. So glad we had the chance to talk. I hope we run into each other again, somewhere.”
He clasps my hand, wheels around and strides away. His gait is brisk, as if he always knows where he’s going. Seconds later, the door opens, and I step inside. An aroma of coffee envelops me like a sweater. It’s almost as comfortable as home.
© Leah Mueller
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