The Belgian Motorway Network is Entirely Illuminated

A love story

Friday

Grand Place.

The last of the evening’s sun sparks the gilded tops of the merchants’ complexes. A hush in a multitude of languages in this bilingual city. Selfie sticks in the sunset. Zonsondergang. Le coucher du soleil.

‘Did you know that the Belgian motorway network is entirely illuminated?’ you say, as we squeeze through medieval lanes.

I add it to my file of facts that I will never need to use.

You find us a table outside. The beer is sweet and wheaten. I let my shoulders down.

Saturday

Palais de Justice.

Skateboards clatter across the sharp pavements as we walk towards breakfast.

‘Did you know that is where Marc Dutroux was held during his trial.’

‘How many girls were in his basement?’

‘Loads. There was a cover up. Friends in high places.’

‘Jesus... are you having that croissant?’

I slip a speculoos biscuit in my bag. Later I hand it to the barefoot man sitting next to the underpass.

Sunday

Parc Royal.

My bag chafes against my sunburnt neck. We watch an old couple lower themselves into canvas deckchairs.

‘Did you know that those were the second biggest killer during the blitz?’

‘Those two?’

‘No - the deckchairs. Pulmonary Embolism. Deep Vein Thrombosis.’

I add it to my list to watch out for: killer deck chairs.

Later at Gare Du Midi.

“Did you know that…’

“Wait”

The taxi drivers across the road talk, debate, no hang on, they’re shouting.

>Ta guele toi!<

Foreheads smack, a woman gets in the cab. He drives away, bloodied and boiling. Fares before fights.

We get on the bus for the airport. The lights are orange, flickering up the lanes that cut through the fields of the fallen.

You are right: the Belgian motorway network is entirely illuminated.