Sunday, June 26, 2011


259. Parc du Cinquantenaire. One lap -- that is how long it takes me for to cave in to the decidedly un-Belgian heat, and classily roll up my ankle-length running pants almost halfway through the upper thighs. Puffing around the park crowded with people enjoying a hot summer day, half of the pants already sort of falling down, the other half still holding up, I try not to wonder what people might think of my outfit, chanting in my head, "I will never see these people again, I will never see these people again..."

What are the odds, that the very day I compose this mantra is the first day I ever run into someone I know, at the park?

260. Having just completed our individual runs, we are comparing notes. "Oh, I did a 7 km in under half an hour..." he says. Sheepish, I tell him about my run, which was a little shorter but took me much longer. "It's still good! Really, that's not bad at all," ever the politician, he tries to compliment me. "Actually, it's terrible," I state the obvious, but still feel thankful that he does not laugh at my efforts. 

Half an hour later, a particularly strong wind comes through the window, carrying with it the unpleasant heat. "God, it's hot, isn't it?" he shakes head. "Yes! At the park, I was melting..." Almost unnoticeably, he utters under his breath, "Especially at that speed..."

261. Seeing Gaston sitting lady-like, legs crossed, in my long black skirt. Considering his suddenly feminist appearance the evening, it was not surprising, in retrospect, that Gaston had been the first person to remark that it's about six months since our wonderful pre-Christmas party on December 11, one of the first "Tuesday" dinners, and that tonight would be the last.


  1. Humm I'm also having clothes issue since a few days.

  2. What happened to your clothes...?

  3. I gave all my clothes to the hotel laundry. So since Saturday I just have a pant and two socks. I'm lucky that someone lent me a t-shirt.