This is the view from the terrace at the back of my apartment.  For months I’ve said “I want that crane to go away.” Seems like what I want is not so impactful.

I have my days where the crane has become part of the natural landscape, a welcomed piece of the puzzle.  Yesterday was not one of those days.

I vowed to find this crane, to stand beside it and gauge the construction progress being made.  And … calculate when the big long thing would disappear.

So I set off, brimming with confidence that I’d easily locate my “companion”.  “It’s just to the right of that tall smokestack, only a lot closer.”

Out the door, along the Oudburg, a stop at my bench where the Leie curves.  Way in the distance rose the smokestack.  But no crane.  “No matter!” I huffed.  “It’s just to the right of the crane.  It’s not as tall as the stack so it’s hidden behind buildings “

On I trod, following the sweep of the river.  Way to the east beyond, I eventually spotted the crane.  Yes!  I marched on resolutely, proud of my determination to produce the result.  “Look at that crane … that yellow crane.”

Hmm.  Yellow seemed off.  Wasn’t it orange?  Unhappily I didn’t come armed with a terrace photo.

And then I stood under the beast.  Next door was a hole in the ground with a cement foundation.  “That’s the sum total of the work they’ve done for all these months?”

My certainty puddled.

I went on Google Maps and figured out angles: smokestack, church spires, an ornate tower.  “I’m in the wrong place!  I’m too far south.”  So I shifted north, cleverly putting myself on the edge of a park so I’d have a long view in that direction.  “Yes, I know.  The buildings will be father away.  I’ll be able to see the crane above them.”

I walked.  I looked.  I didn’t see.

I started beating my chest, tearing off my clothes, sinking my fingernails into flesh.  (Just kidding)  Actually the angst was purely emotional … or perhaps it was The Dark Night of the Soul. 

“What the hell do these construction people do … dismantle the crane every evening?!”

With my Ghentian orientation skills, I located myself on the Ottogracht – a neighbouring street to the Oudburg.

“My God, I’m nearly home.  I give up.”

And then, leaning over the precipice of despair, I glanced across the street.  Such lovely buildings here – ordinary, lived in, unspectacular.

Peeking above a roof was a little bit of metal angles.  It was … orange.

I hurried down a side street.  It opened onto a little square – the Edward Anseeleplein.  In the corner, a home was clearly inder construction.

I was a four-minute walk from home.