FROZE - LETTERS FROM BRUSSELS 01

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Fritz Tavernier

Published on Oct 2, 2019
About :

How does it feel to move from Ghent to Brussels? To exchange the peace of the small city for the chaos of the European capital? In the coming months I will publish four short stories about my adventures in the metropolis; Letters from Brussels... Camera: Tibo Van Speybroeck Music by Emile Ryckebusch LIKE & SUBSCRIBE / frozeofficial / friggedie_froze LETTERS FROM BRUSSELS 01: 'THE MOVE' About coffee grounds, photos on the wall and honking cars There is a photo on the wall. Of that one time we went to the Ardennes and made a pot of spaghetti that was actually inedible. The photo was taken at an unguarded moment. And everyone is in it, as they are, as I would like to remember each of them. Time for coffee. I put the kettle on and I realize how empty the room is. I stare at the photo on the wall and feel the hands of the clock turning backwards, the sound of the honking cars on the Brussels ring road changing into the cadence of a freight train passing by. 'Will you promise us one thing? That you will always write to us? 'Yes,' I say, 'I will. Whatever happens, I will always send you letters.' The Gent Dampoort station is deserted. 'And don't forget to call us!' someone shouts from the back of the small group of friends. The others look at him strangely. The voice on the loudspeakers tells us that the train to Brussels is delayed. And there we are. Thick wisps of cigarette smoke above our heads and lukewarm coffee in plastic cups. 'Friggedie, next week we're going to the Kompass, and on Saturday to the Deca. Will you come with us?' Someone should have told him that the Decadance is now an après-ski bar, and that some things can't last forever. But we didn't. We still wanted to tell so much. But none of us knew how, none of us could find the right words and so a long silence fell on the empty platform. The train emerged from the mist like a snorting horse on a racecourse and stopped panting at the station. 'Good luck, homie, write beautiful songs. And if it ever gets too much for you, there, in the big city, you are always welcome. Never forget us.' I nodded and said goodbye. The train started moving and I heard the iron gates of the city close behind me and fall heavily into the lock. The steaming sound of the kettle brings me back. I take one last look at the photo and walk to the kitchen. Time for coffee. Later I will pour the coffee grounds into a filter and let the boiling water flow until the aroma of strong caffeine fills the room. Later, later I will write to them. A letter. About that one photo on the wall. About that one time in the Ardennes. And about how I will never forget them. Where do I begin?

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