by Smith, Skye
She assumed that one of the big bridges that the train crossed was the Belgian border, because no one asked for her passport, nor was there any welcome sign as she entered a new country. She had to change trains at Antwerp and on her next train she sat in second class. Nobody seemed to mind. Nobody seemed to be checking tickets in any case.
Second was much more interesting because she enjoyed watching people, and outfits. Another big change from America. There was no one dressed in blue jeans or sweat pants. That wasn't quite true. There was a group of about a dozen Americans on some kind of tour. They were the only sloppy-looking people on the train.
She got to Bruges at just before three in the afternoon. From the hotel, Maya had phoned Marique, her Belgian friend from her summer on Vancouver's nude beach, who had said that she would meet her at the station. Marique was working in a coffee shop and living with her parents, trying to save money, but she had assured Maya that she was very welcome to stay at their house.
The best way that Maya could describe how she felt, suddenly standing in a strange train station in a strange city, in a strange country, surrounded by her luggage, was surreal. Of course some of that could be jet lag, or left over weirdness from the Russian psychos, or perhaps just relief at having arrived somewhere.
Things were happening all around her in the busy station, but she was no longer noticing what. She was beyond noticing. She was simply floating along on strange feelings. Her mind was unable to take any more in. And then Marique was standing in front of her with a wide smile. Their hugs went on and on.
"Come," Marique said grabbing the bigger of her bags and rolling it behind her. "My father is parked in a no parking zone." Maya followed behind her willingly. Following she could do. She followed across the station, out the front door and towards a strange looking hatchback with a tall man standing beside the open hatch.
"Velcom", the man said and shook her hand heartily. "Ve must gone now quick. Yellow band." He pointed down at the curb. Marique opened the passenger door and pushed her into the front seat so she could watch the scenery. Her father took a very long way home. He kept doing scenic detours so she could see ancient canals crossed by ancient bridges beside ancient buildings that were built around ancient squares.
There was lovely music on the stereo. Folksy and passionate. "Dat is Jaques Brel. You do not recognize?"
Maya shook her head. The feeling of surreal was getting stronger. Where was she? This was so not Kansas. Marique was leaning forward from the rear seat and resting her chin over Maya's shoulder. Sometimes she was translating.
"Maya," she said, turning back from explaining something to her dad, "everyone speaks the English more or less, but you must 'elp them. They learn in school so they pronounce all the letters. You must not cut your words short. Say 'what' not 'wha'. Compris?"
Maya nodded. Tomas had told her much the same thing. Speak slowly and clearly, and you get by. The other thing he told her is that people who speak Germanic languages use words that are from the Danish side of English, while those who speak Romantic languages use words that are from the Norman side.
"We are going home now to eat supper," said Marique. "It is a festival day today so tonight we will party in the market square."
"Not too late, please," said Maya. "I need to catch up on sleep."
"Maybe one club afterwards. One of coffee dance places. Not too late." Marique actually looked quite disappointed.
"If you want to party all night, don't let me stop you. I don't mind being left to my bed."
"Psha, no problem. The clubs have parties every weekend."
* * * * *
The two young women wandered arm in arm, Europe style, through the crowds assembling in the Market square. Maya found another main difference with America. Prices. Like complete sticker shock. Everything that would have been a dollar in Frisco or Vancouver, was over a Euro here.
"Come away from the restaurants," said Marique. "This is not Vancouver. There are no six dollar trays of sushi. We go and take Belgian fries. You call them freedom fries. First you must promise not to embarrass me by asking for ketchup."
The fries were delicious, and were served wrapped in paper with a choice of flavored mayonnaise. Again she noticed how neatly dressed everyone was. Not expensively dressed, but neatly dressed. Marique show her the coffee shop she was working in. Belgium had the same problem as America in that there were few well-paying jobs for young people.
Old Bruges was like a town caught inside a city. Marique had grown up in the old town, so she knew everyone, or of everyone. They wandered arm in arm between groups of young people. As soon as each group realized that Maya did not speak Flemish or French, they would all immediately switch to English out of nothing more than politeness.
Young men kept telling Marique which club they were going to after the fireworks display at midnight, and she would nod at the information but not commit to any. In the end, she dragged a very sleepy, yawning Maya back to her parent's house and put her to bed, and then went out again
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA'S AURA - the Ashram by Skye Smith
Chapter 7 - Bruges, Belgium
To give pleasure to a single heart by a single act is better than a thousand heads bowing in prayer. - Mahatma Gandhi.
Festival day in Bruges Belgium started with a whimper. Everyone slept in except for Maya, who was still getting used to the new time zone, and had gone to bed hours before anyone else in the house.
She never did fall back to sleep after Marique crawled into their shared bed at about five in the morning. Marique stank of beer and ashtrays. Marique did not even stir while she got up and got dressed in her warmest clothes. The rooms in old stone houses just never seemed to get warm.
She nuked some left over coffee and ate a piece of stale bread because she couldn't find the toaster. Or at least she didn't want to make a lot of noise finding the toaster. By eight am there were still no signs of life, so she found her coat in the hall closet went outside using the back door. As soon as she opened it she hoped there was no alarm system.
Outside in the fresh air she immediately felt better. Part of it was the rush of realization that here she was in Europe. The buildings on this street were so old. Even the cobble stone streets were ancient. The sun must be up because the sky had turned from dark gray to light gray. The drizzle was annoying, so she bought a folding umbrella from a foreign-looking man standing in a doorway. Made in China. Well, some things were the same as in America.
After a half an hour she was all turned around but luckily there were tourist maps on signs, and using one she figured out why she had gotten turned around. The old center was surrounded by a circular canal, as if it were a moat. Without sun or shadows she had no idea which way she was now heading.
There were some old men drinking coffee in a shop, and she went inside and showed them Marique's father's card. They quickly had her sorted out, but refused to allow her to go back out into the icy drizzle until she had warmed herself with a coffee. Bruges was a tourist town, but this was not tourist season. All of the men made their living from tourists, but this was the season where they could relax and make the time to enjoy the company of the occasional tourist.
Once she was warmed by two coffees and some devastatingly sweet Belgian pastries, two of the men took her arms and strolled her back to the house through a labyrinth of paths. She thanked them and went around the back hoping that the door was still unlocked. Sitting at the kitchen table was a teenage boy munching Honey Nut Oatios and playing video games on a hand-held unit. Well, some things were the same as in America.
"You must be Maya. Hello, I present Antoine, Marique's brother."
She reasoned that he must be a real shit, because Marique had never mentioned him before. "I didn't know Marique had a little brother."
"All Belgian girls 'ave a little brother. Very few 'ave an older brother. It is blame of the smaller families. Couples have children until they 'ave a son
, and then they stop."
"So that means," Maya teased, "that all Belgian boys are spoiled wrotten."
"What means 'spoiled'?" he asked. "You want Oatios?" he didn't wait for an answer but started playing video games again. She wriggled out of her damp coat, and that made him look up. "So you are the girl from the nude beach in Canada?" He was staring at her breasts. A hard stare.
"Yes," she admitted. "Do you want me to take my top off so you can have a good look?"
At first he thought he had misunderstood, and played her words through his head again. Then he looked at her confused. Humor did not translate well. Neither did exaggeration. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Yes, of course. I would like that."
"In your dreams," she said smirking at him.
Again he was slow to react while he translated and then re translated. "Yes it would be better if we wait until sleep time. My room is next to the one you share with my sister."
She tried to explain her true meaning, but gave up and started to laugh. He was looking so seriously eager. A good virgin. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," he said. He took her silence as a question and added. "A baby died. The one between me and Marique."
"When you are sixteen, then you may ask me to your room. If you behave until you are sixteen, then I will say yes. If you do not behave, then I will say no."
It took him a while to understand all of the words, but then he jumped up and got her a bowl and spoon for her Oatios. They were not as sweet as the American ones. She wondered if the Chocolate kind had made it across the Atlantic yet. He looked at her face, searching for approval, and then put the coffee machine on.
The smell of fresh coffee wafting through the house must have woken everyone else, because first the mother, then the father, and eventually Marique came down the stairs. The mother spoke very little English. She barely spoke Flemish. She was from the French part of Belgium. Last night she had been heartbroken to find out that Maya was not Canadian, and therefore did not speak French.
Maya didn't need more coffee, but she sat at the kitchen table while the others sipped theirs. It was a holiday and everyone had the day off. They were in no hurry to go out in the winter drizzle, and seemed happy that Maya had taken herself on a morning tour.
"So, is it like this all the way up the coast, this drizzle?"
"Oh no," replied the father. "In Holland it is snowing, and in Denmark it is snowing heavily."
"So Denmark has mountains," she asked.
"None. The land is a low flat marsh from here all the way up to Denmark, and then all along the coast of the Baltic Sea to Saint Petersburg." He caught a fuddled look from the young woman and it dawned on him that she did not know much about geography.
"Bummer," said Maya, "I was hoping to do a roots trip to Freisland." The simple statement took almost a half hour to explain. Not just the words, and the trip, but her heritage.
"I don't know why you came here in the winter, then," Marique said. "I am stuck in winter here trying to save money, but you, you have the money to go to the tropics, no?"
Actually, by middle class standards, Maya didn't have much money, but all of her money was usable. The taxes were paid and she had no debt or payments. "Where would you suggest?"
"Goa, you knew I would say Goa. Thailand used to be good too, but ever since that movie 'The Beach', the drunken Brits 'ave discovered it. I try to stay away from drunken Brits. You know there is a German website that tracks the places that are popular with drunken Brits so others can stay away."
"And there are no drunken Brits in Goa?"
"Sure there are, but Goa has so many beaches that you can get away from them."
"But all the beaches must be crowded. Goa is in India. There are a lot of people in India."
"Hah, Indians do not go to the beach. They are afraid of getting brown. They hide from the sun. Sometimes you will see a group of men, all clustered together and in their city clothes walking down an empty beach hoping to see Euro girls, but they are so obvious that you can hide from them."
"So how would I get to Goa?"
"Find a cheap flight from Brussels to Mumbai, and then take the over the night train to Margao." Marique yelled something to Antoine, who was in the next room, and he came to them with a large atlas under his arm. She knew that Americans were weak on geography, so she started by showing her where they were on the world map, and then the map of Europe and eventually turned to the map of India.
She left Maya looking at the atlas with Antoine while she raced up to her room and returned with a road map of Goa. "See all the beaches. This is the main port and town, Panaji. In the old days, like, you know, the days of the Beetles, the popular beaches were all to the north of Panaji. Now they are to the south, closer to the other big town, Margao."
She pointed out a few that she had been to. "Every year the best beach to go to, you know, it changes. Once a beach is too well-known, it is quickly ruined. That is what 'appened in Thailand because of that bloody movie about the beach. I 'ave a friend who 'elps to put on raves and full moon parties. He will tell you which beach to go to."
"Full moon parties. I haven't been to one of those since high school in Mendocino."
"Well," said Marique, "Goa has some of the best parties. In the winter, you know, the nights are warm, not hot. The skies are clear and the moon is bright, and people dress up in sparkly outfits and dance all night on the beach under the moon."
Maya looked out the window at the drizzle, or was it now freezing drizzle. "When will Denmark warm up?"
"Maybe April, or perhaps May."
"Too long to wait," Maya said, feeling a chill settling in her soul. "Okay, where is your computer? Let's find me a cheap flight to Mumbai. Antoine, find me a town called Dharamsala on the map of India. That is another place I should go to."
"Merde," cursed Marique, "I wish I could go. Once you get there it is cheap, but getting there costs so much. I 'ave no win. At the shop, I earn little, and if I stay much longer with my parents, I 'ave need to pay them rent."
"If I bought you a ticket, would you have enough to go?"
"I don't understand," said Marique, but then Antoine shot her some phrases. "No, I already owe you so much."
"So. you don't have enough?"
"No, I mean yes, but I can't. It is not right."
"If I was a rich guy who was taking you to Goa so he wouldn't have to travel alone," Maya asked, putting on a persuasive voice, "would you go?"
Antoine answered for her. "Her dream 'as always been to be taken care of by rich guys. I wish I were a girl. It's not fair. No one buys tickets for guys."
"Shh," Marique told him. "Go away, you are bugging us." A broad smile filled Marique's face and made her look seventeen. "I will 'ave to give two weeks' notice at the shop, but then I can go."
"Your parents won't mind that you live with them only to save money to go away? That you use them?"
"My mother will not like it. She thinks I should be looking for a good French husband to give her francophone grandchildren. My father will say what he always says." She deepened her voice and put her finger across her lip like her father's mustache. "Young people should go off and have adventures. They have the rest of their life to be old."
That night, sitting on their bed with the glow of Antoine's laptop making their fair faces look blue and their blonde hair look ghostly, they booked two flights from Brussels to Mumbai on December 6th, returning March 6th. Three months was the limit for Indian tourist visas issued in Brussels. If they wanted to stay longer it would cost them extra money to extend their visa, and their flight, but not much.
They had been sitting in their robes with legs and arms entwined, sharing the keyboard and the screen. Marique untangled herself and rolled off the bed and onto her feet to go and ask Antoine to help them print off the confirmations. She found Antoine sneaking away from her door. She grabbed him and pulled him into the room.
"Was he spying on us like some perv?" Maya dema
nded.
"Not a perv, just a little brother." Marique shrugged. "He is normal."
"You don't get mad?"
"Umm," Marique said. She had a complex thought to translate. "When you met me I was walking around on a nude beach, in the nude, selling beer to men for too much money. That my brother sees me nude, that has no importance, but yes, what he did was rude. He should not be sneaking around my door. He should have let us know he was watching."
"What?" Maya began, "you would let him?"
"You Americans are such prudes. That is the word, yes. I mean, the Dutch and the Germans think that we Belgians are prudes, but we are nothing compared to you." She showed Antoine the confirmation of their flights on the screen and asked him to print it and then come back.
"When you took your first lover," Marique asked, "did your mother let you sleep with him in your bed?"
"What? Of course not. What a crazy question. No way."
"There, see, that is so not logical. I lost my virginity in this bed. My parents thought I was too young, but they also wanted me to be safe while it happened. Where is safer than here? They were wise."
"Wise," said Maya, "that is not wise, that is just weird."
"We would have done it anyway," Marique argued. "Somewhere secret where I would be at risk. In this room they knew who I was with, and they knew I was safe and not drugged."
"But it's not that easy," said Maya, thinking about her first time in the back seat of a car parked on a lonely stretch of road.
"I did not say it was easy. My father was upset for weeks because he had lost his little girl. The boy was so nervous that I had to seduce him. My mother was the surprise. She is a good Catholic woman but she was okay with it. She even brought us breakfast in bed the next morning. Of course, that did serve to keep us out of the kitchen until my father had gone to work."
Antoine knocked gently and then came in with the printed confirmations. The women were now completely covered up with their robes pulled tight to their throats. He put the laptop back on the bed with the papers, and then sat there waiting to be asked to leave.