Belgium and Holland (part 4 of 4)

"We'll take a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne"
 - Auld Lang Syne, by Robert Burns

We headed back to Belgium on Friday, the three kids and Desi and I. We switched trains twice, once again having to sit inside another sweaty connection car because it was the only spot able to fit the two strollers. It was a relief to get onto one which had spaces for bikes, as these were much cooler and comfortable. In one car, we parked the strollers and sat down, though Desi's six-year-old daughter decided she wanted to sit elsewhere. She sat across from a woman a couple of seats down and struck up an easy conversation. Desi translated for me, smiling at her precocious daughter who told the interested stranger, “Yes, I’m from Ecuador, but I live in Belgium and I was just visiting my grandparents in Holland. Yes, I speak Spanish and Dutch … and English and French.” (“I think she understands English pretty well but she only knows a few words in French,” Desi told me, laughing). When the woman got off the train, she beamed at Desi and waved goodbye to her daughter, who sat cross-legged on the seat while looking around curiously for anyone new to talk to. 

Back in Belgium that afternoon, Desi and I biked to a couple of nearby grocery stores to find a cake for the three-year-old's birthday. We bought two small cakes and a carton of milk and loaded the purchases into a box on the back of Desi’s bike. We rode back along the streets to their home, parking the bikes near the garage and walking up the steps to the front door. The outside of the modest home reminds me of the brownstones you see in New York in the movies. The whole neighborhood is composed of old, stately buildings who share walls with no space in-between. Inside, the wall paper is ancient, a style from a different time. The kitchen is tiny, with a half-sized fridge, but along the whole house are large windows to let in the light. Because of the Zovas, the place is immediately inviting. Each time I sat down in the living room or at the dining room table, they made me feel at home. 

We celebrated their three-year-old son's birthday in the back yard. Miguel and Desi had invited one of Miguel’s classmates to the celebration, so the four of us adults sang happy birthday to their son and watched as he opened gifts enthusiastically. When the kids went to bed, we played cards and dominos. The night air was cool and refreshing after the hot day. We stayed out late, talking and playing games. 

On Saturday morning Desi and I once again biked to the grocery store, this time to purchase some final chocolates for me to bring back to Ecuador. We picked out a selection of gifts, including some for me to send to Miguel's sisters. When we returned home, two friends from Holland had arrived. They were in town for a celebration later that day. The couple had been integral in starting Casa Adalia, so I had seen them several times when they had visited Ecuador. We all sat in the backyard while Miguel made toasted sandwiches for everyone. We ate and talked and watched the kids play, until out of nowhere it began to rain, the sun still shining down. We moved to the porch and watched the brief rain shower. 

The night, Desi and Miguel hired babysitter to come watch the kids while we went out to dinner. When planning the trip, I had offered to babysit the kids so that the two of them could have a date night. However, when I arrived they thanked me for the offer but said they wanted to take me out instead. Having long been the babysitter, it meant worlds to me that they’d instead chose for the three of us to go out together.
I wore a maxi-length autumn-yellow dress with embroidery on the front. We set out on our bikes, the cool night air gently blowing my skirt around my knees. I felt graceful and light and free. Even now, it’s a feeling which is so beautiful, it gives me chills when I recall it. A feeling of being unbound; safe, loved, lovely, and without a single restraint. Utterly content and free. 

We parked the bikes and walked around the cobblestone streets, passing grand historic buildings before deciding on a restaurant. We sat at an outdoor table and watched the crowds of people pass by, many going to an outdoor concert happening that evening and, surprisingly, at least two groups of bridesmaids and a future bride, all wearing sashes or shirts which identified them as celebratory parties. 

After dinner we walked some more as the sun slowly set. Desi would say, “Oh look at that doorway! Here, stand it in and I’ll take a picture.” My favorite is one of the two of us, sitting in the magnificent doorway of an old church, talking in the fading light. My second favorite is one Desi took of me standing and pretending to read a newspaper beside a window showing an art exhibit of figures also reading various books. 

It was a full moon that night: we caught glimpses of the large yellow orb between buildings, breathtakingly beautiful. We stopped for drinks before heading home. Back on our bikes, Desi snapped a photo of me, smiling in my long dress. 

Sunday was my final day there. Miguel’s cousin was coming in the morning for a visit so he left to pick her up while Desi and the kids and I headed to church. The six-year-old rode on a seat attached to the back of my bike while Desi rode with the baby strapped to her front, pulling the three-year-old in an attached cart. All the kids rode along merrily, my passenger occasionally chatting behind me as she took in the views of the city. It was a fairly far ride: Desi and I were both very warm when we arrived. I wore a white dress that day. We parked the bikes and went into the church, the older kids running eagerly to their classes. 

We biked home, ate lunch, and a neighbor brought over a scale so I could weigh my suitcases.
“We don’t have one, but we can ask to borrow one,” thrifty Desi told me when I asked. 

We stood in the dining room, weighing ourselves and then holding the largest suitcase and subtracting our weights to get an approximate read. I repacked several things until it seemed as close to fifty pounds as possible on the European metric scale. Upstairs, Desi and I exchanged dresses. She gave me the dark sundress with the low back and deep pockets which I had admired, and I gave her my lemon dress. She had told that when she lived in Italy she grew to love the custom people have of gifting each other personal items. “It’s so meaningful. Someone would compliment someone and next thing you knew, that person would give it as a gift. It’s very sweet," she said. I fully agreed. 

It was hard to say goodbye. When I returned to Quito, it was cold and raining. I spent the day wrapped in sweaters and looking forward to going to bed early after another set of grueling flights. I found that my arms ached to hold their baby, who seemed to take to me quickly, to play with their kids, and to talk with Desi and Miguel. Our conversation is easy and natural. I miss Miguel’s jokes and Desi’s laugh. I miss Belgium and Holland and bicycles. I miss being able to wear whatever I want without anyone batting an eye or whistling at me. I felt at home there. I hope to go back, whether to live there one day or simply to visit. In any case, it was a trip like no other. It was a time of falling into the lives of dear friends in another country and having it feel at home simply because it’s home for them. 



In front of Miguel and Desi's home

Going downtown 

Biking home from church