This evening I went to the Hilton Hotel in Brussels to celebrate Angola's national day (they became independent from Portugal on 11 November 1975). It was the usual stuff. Mingling, talking, gathering information, pretending to be amused, interested; sometimes I was. It was funny to see the Israeli ambassador walking around with her two body-guards.
The music was far too loud, everybody had to shout in each others' ears to get any point across. There was a moment when the singer came out of the stage and started walking around with his mic and singing "My Way", the Frank Sinatra "My Way". He stopped by the Angolan ambassador, like a troubadour in the Middle Ages must have done before his Lordship. It was amusing. So loud. Goodness, can anybody shut him up for a minute? We're trying to do some diplomacy around here.
Anyway, it was on the way home that the evening's beauty had time to wash over my senses. It was cold today. Almost freezing cold. I walked down the boulevard to catch the tram at place Stéphanie. It was Armistice Day today, and shops had been closed all day. There were so few cars, Brussels felt like a village. The air was dry and walking kept me cozy. I was wrapped inside my big Italian anorak. It felt like the cold was warm.
I was walking silently listening to my ipod, and the lights in the shops, the Gucci, the Versace, the Louis Vuitton, the Ferragamo, the Chanel, were shining like underwater ghosts. Soft, very softly. Like whispers of light. Then I caught the tram. The driver was cute and friendly. He said bonsoir. When was the last time a tram driver said bonsoir to me? It was that kind of night with stars. I felt so good.
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