My friend Lydia has come from Maarkedal to visit me for two days. Nearly six years ago, on a hiking trail in Alberta, Canada, Lydia told me about the children that she and her friends sponsor in Senegal. They visit the kids most Christmases.

“Would you like to come with us?”

And the rest is life turned upside down. I would be sitting in Belmont, Canada today rather than in Ghent, Belgium were it not for my friend.

Lydia and I love each other. We want each other to be supremely happy, to have outrageous adventures, to smile all the way to the end.

I met her late yesterday afternoon as she got off the train at the Gent Sint-Pieters station. I tried to hide but she was too fast for me. “Welcome to my city.” She’d always been the one welcoming me.

And then my street … the Oudburg. Up the stairs to my apartment. “Welcome to my home.”

We sat on my white couch talking about life – her kids and my new friends, the joys of really being in a new country. I’m a resident, immersed in the flow of humanity strolling the streets of Ghent centrum.

We had dinner at Petit Comité, only a three-minute walk from me but around the corner from the busy Oudburg. One of the owners welcomed us so genuinely and guided us through the menu possibilities. We had five little courses to share – small portions of eye-opening flavours.

We were nourished by warm Brie cheese, pork ribs, spicy corn-on-the-cob … as well as the tiramisu. The real sustenance, however, was in our friendship, in the gaps between the words, in the eyes.

It was quiet and slow. No phone calls. Room to breathe.

We went for a walk after dark. Meandering down the cobblestones in the oldest part of the city. After crossing a wee bridge we sat on a bench on the Lievekaai. Here is what we beheld:

Silence reigned. We said very little as night closed around us. We lingered in the stillness.

Lydia’s life is so busy: entrepreneur, mother and friend. Finally a time to rest, to fall into the slumber of the city, to sigh.

***

All was well within the embrace of nighttime

The embrace of friendship

I’m not going to ride a bicycle anymore.  My friend Baziel will soon be taking Betty on his commutes to university in Ghent.

I’ve had a strange cycling career.  It didn’t exist until I was 47.  Never had a bike as a kid.  A decade or more later, I started leading short rides with the London Cycling Club in Canada.

In 2012, I had a blood clot in my left leg which I happily survived.  But I started noticing my balance was off, and it’s remained so.

It had been my goal to ride the Tour du Canada – a bike ride across my country.  In 2018 I was 69.  “It’s now or never, Bruce!”  I trained hard.

I lasted four days.  The fitness was okay.  The bike skills were not.  I fell several times and couldn’t do the slow motion maneuvering in downtown Vancouver.  And I was terrified of the semi-trailer trucks blasting by three metres to my left.  I quit.

My right hand shook for weeks.  The PTSD was alive in me … and it still lingers.

As I contemplated my move to Belgium, one task was clear: “What do I keep and what do I give away?”  I felt into the question and my quiet voice said “Take Betty across the ocean.”  So I did.

“How many times have you ridden in Ghent?” you ask.  “Zero,” I answer.  Right now I feel a twinge of embarrassment about that but it’s being magically overwhelmed by a smile.

I’ve watched cyclists ply their trade in Ghent centrum.  Navigating the tram tracks, the approaching trams, and slow-moving pedestrians.  I shake my head with wonder and really get that I no longer have what it takes to do that.  Plus I don’t want to do that.

Did I mention “strange”?  Especially with me smiling in the moment.  Prevailing wisdom probably says that I should rise to the occasion, “gird my loins”, be a man. 

Take on the challenge!

You can do it!

Fly!

***

No … I don’t want to

Just that

Is it bright or dull?  Is it “out there” or “in here”?  Is it seen or hidden?

We show each other our clothes, our smiles or frowns, the spirit of our walking.

Do we have a sign hanging around our neck, revealing who we are?  Or is the back of the sign facing outwards … blank?  And maybe there’s no sign.

Do we reveal our creations?  Is it clear that we are a growing thing?

Do we choose to blend in, adjusting ourselves to each new environment?  Or do we joy in contrast so that the heart of things can stand out?

Do we walk alone?  Just with a favoured few?  Or do we welcome all the world’s residents to stroll the paths with us?

Are we curious, freely admitting the span of our not knowing?  Or perfectly sure of ourselves, confident with our “rightness” in every conversation?

Do we prefer curves or right angles?  Are we akin to brick or wood or aluminum siding?  Do we gaze up to the roof or peer into the basement windows?

Who does the world see as you pass by in the street?

And do you even want to know?

There’s no rule saying you need to

David Attenborough, the British broadcaster and creator of nature documentaries such as Planet Earth, turned 97 a week ago.

One Facebook page is up to 74,000 likes and loves and 5,700 comments full of birthday wishes.

I ask myself “What would it be like to be so revered? Is that what I want in my life, to be showered with adulation? To be known far and wide for my good works?”

No … I don’t want that.

Yes … I want to be loved, but if it’s just a few folks that’s okay. I want to lead a loving life and the quantity of love returning is not important.

Still there’s a part of me that would like to hear things like this:

You are an inspiration to us all

You are so loved and admired and respected

You dear kind caring loving Sir

There will never be another you

The world could certainly use more like him

It’s seductive … these thoughts of being loved. Do I unconsciously adjust myself so that the praise will come? Do I tiptoe around difficult moments rather than just saying what’s true for me? Do I linger in the receiving too much and burst out in the giving too little?

Here comes a smile, which I always see as a good sign. “Just continue doing what you’re doing, Bruce. Fall into the moments of generosity. See who needs a hand on the shoulder.”

***

There will be no statue of me at the end of my days

But I bet there’ll be a few smiles of remembrance

One or two would be fine

I watch people.  It’s a fine hobby.  And many of the folks are old.

They may have a cane, or even a walker.  Perhaps they’re stooped over.  Unsteady on their feet.  Wary of the cobblestone surprises.

They go on slowly.  They find benches for rest.  They allow far more walking time than Google Maps suggests.

Their skin sags.  There are drooping lines beside the mouth.  Under the eyes is a riot of folds and blemishes.  Some, such as a certain Canadian I know, have a generous fold of skin beneath the chin, available for future cosmetic improvements.

For men, the V-shaped body of youth has graciously morphed into a U.  The flat belly is now nicely rounded.  For women, the perky breasts of yesteryear now fall gently towards the earth.

***

Of course there was a time when Hollywood beauty may have shone from the face.  High cheekbones, unbroken expanses of soft skin, eyes that required no makeup.

Muscles were sleek and strong.  Maybe the body was tanned … not too much, not too little.  Movements were easy and flowing.  Being young spoke clearly.

***

Now the questions are for me …

Do I have eyes to see beyond the decline of age?

Can my eyes look deeply into theirs, showing me the eternal human being?

Do I truly get that youth is in the smile?

My body aches. My face smiles.

Three friends and I walked to Kompass Klub last night. Actually the fellow rode his bike … so slowly and skilfully to match our pace.

“Oh my God! I’m going to a techno club.”

I was warned about the incredible volume of the music but I had earplugs tucked into my coat pocket.

And I thought big EDM festivals like Tomorrowland or Core would be similar to last night. My friends smiled and shook their heads. They educated me about “beats per minute (BPM)”.

“Tomorrowland usually is about 120. Kompass Klub is 150 … sometimes way more. Get ready!”

I was ready. My friend the bartender had arranged for us to be guests = get in free. As so we were ushered through the gate.

Ahead of me were hundreds of tiny lockers. Two euros later my coat and valuables were safely stored away. I was light as a feather and ready to boogie.

Hanging plastic straps greeted us as we entered the dance floor …

Woh! More decibels than humanly possible smashed my ears. Strobe lights blasted. Red laser beams flew around the room.

My mouth dropped. And my hand dove into a pocket for earplugs. Finally inserted, the dampeners still left me with raucous sound.

My friends turned to assess my newbie face. “I love this!”

I looked around and maybe two hundred people were just standing there, jiggling a bit. “Where’s the dancing?” > “It’ll take awhile for them to warm up.”

Five minutes later, I was grooving to the music, my arms increasingly flailing. Let the others stand in place – I want to move!

Before showing up, I had a decision to make. My balance isn’t the greatest and I need really good footwear if I’ll be on my feet for awhile. I wear hiking boots every day. But can I dance in them?

Turns out, most of me sure could dance but my feet got stuck on the floor (those grippy soles!). So … down to my ankles I was free and easy. Well, not totally. I didn’t throw my hands over my head. They were doing their thing sideways. Guess I was worried about really standing out. Silly me.

When I thrust my feet out in random directions, I usually stumbled. Oh well.

I started dancing around midnight and pooped out at 1:30. Partway I took a five-minute break to walk my sweaty self outside – away from the noise, our mutual heat and my throbbing knees.

Gosh it was fun. There’ll definitely be a next time for this dancing fool. Maybe I’ll stay later so the “warming up” folks near me will eventually be in full flight.

I’ll bring running shoes and put my hiking boots in a locker. Then let’s see what my feet can do! If my ankles feel on the verge of collapse I’ll switch to the boots.

(Oh … I just realized that I didn’t think about taking pictures last night. All I could see was the dancing.)

***

A voice just invaded my head: “You’re too old”

To which I respond “B*l*s*i*!”

Watch me go!

I’m the guy whose left hip sometimes hurts so much that I have trouble climbing the forty steps to my apartment.  I also love dancing.

Not the waltz and fox trot.  The throw your arms all over the place and hope you don’t hit someone dancing. Techno!  Electronic Dance Music (EDM)!

A few days ago I was having a beer in the Afsnis café and started talking to the bartender.  I told her I’ve moved from Canada and I love Ghent.  Then I said that I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen in Amsterdam in two weeks.  From there I’m off to Brussels for the Core Festival.

Her eyes widened … and it wasn’t about Springsteen.  Core is a techno event.

Next I mentioned how I’d love to go to the Kompass Klub, an EDM venue only a half-hour walk from home.  Here’s a photo:

The bartender smiled.  “I used to work there.  I can get you a guest pass for Friday night.”

Now it was my turn for wide eyes.

Today is Friday.  Tonight around 11 I’ll lighten the door of the club.  I suppose I’ll be surrounded by teens and 20s.  They’ll have more energy than me but it doesn’t matter.  I’ll dance a bit less and rest a bit more.  But when I’m dancing!  Watch out, world.

I guess there’ll be a lot of drugs.  I’m not interested.  I guess there’ll be a lot of decibels.  I’m buying earplugs today.  I guess there’ll be an incredible light show.  Yes!

I’m here in a new world

New friends

New joys

Why not go fearless into the night and shake everything I’ve got?

Today I wanted to visit the loveliest cemetery in Ghent.  Dirk suggested Westerbegraafplats.  And here I am.

It’s only the song birds, the mourning doves and me.  And all the souls who have been laid to rest.  In front of me are rows of low monuments and off in the distance huge chestnut trees with their white blossoms.

The trees are immense here.  For some it would take three of us with arms outstretched to fill the circumference.  And the quiet hangs above.

I came for the people who have gone on.  In Canada I loved reading the personal messages carved into stone but in Belgium those messages are in Flemish.  A language of my future.

What I did see were photos of the dearly departed – hundreds of them.  I wanted to know these people.  Almost all of the pictures felt like this:

I know that tradition in the long ago was not to smile, but it still makes me sad to see these faces.  “Who are you, really?”   So expressionless … so (if you will) “half-dead”.

Here are four more faces.  The two in the middle make me smile a bit.  “Here’s the spark I’m looking for.”  I can tell they had a lot of good times, and that their family loved them dearly.

Ready for two more?  Here you go:

Can’t you just seeing them reaching over that cross for a sweet hug, one that lingers?  I can.  I bet they had twelve grandkids, and that grandma and grandpa spoiled them something awful!

Another search in my mind was finding a photo of the couple together, hopefully arms around each other, their eyes shining.  And there was success:

It’s a place where lives still live

It was a long time ago …

Jody and I had been travelling in the United States.  We were driving west to Buffalo, an American city on the Canadian border.

Once back “home” I knew the route back to London.  I knew that eventually the huge Lake Erie would appear on my left, and then I’d only be two hours from our village of Union.

But then, as I was dehypnotizing myself from the rhythm of the road, I peered ahead.  There was a touch of blueness in the distance … on the right.

The touch became a broad expanse.  I was shocked.  “Huh?!  Where the hell am I?”  I pulled off onto the shoulder.  My brain cells were misfiring.  I was close to drooling.  I was lost – in the mind and soul.

As you can see from the map, after I crossed the bridge into Canada from Buffalo, I must have missed a turn.  I was not heading west.  I was heading north!  The blueness was Lake Ontario.

Oh my God!

It was yesterday …

I went for a long walk in the rain, exploring unknown parts of Ghent.  Here’s a map, something that I refused to use on the journey:

The top-to-bottom body of water on the right is the Handelsdok.  I had been walking north along the western shore towards the little bridge near the green balloon.

I looked across the water to see what seemed to be a building under construction.  There were bare girders … and on a floor open to the air, way up high, kids were playing football (soccer)!  My eyes opened wide.

Actually it was a school – Kinderdagverblijf Melopee.  And there was a sports complex in the same building – the Buurtsporthal Melopee.

Very cool.

I roamed some more, past an industrial site, with metal things piled up. I was delightfully lost, and at a dead end. Did I mention I love getting lost? Showing incredible courage for a human being, I left my cell phone in my jeans. No Google Maps!

I found my way back to the school and decided to head east away from the bridge.

On and on I trudged, accompanied by droplets on my face. Warehouse after warehouse. I kept expecting some road to the left would show up, taking me north. But nothing …

“Wow! I’m really far east now. But that’s okay. I have tons of time to wind my way back to the Oudburg.”

Finally, a street showed up on the left and it curved gently more to the left. “This is good. I’m going north and a wee bit west. Piece of cake.”

After taking more steps than any other modern man, I saw something big moving in the distance. It was a tram!

“Huh?! What’s a tram doing way out here?” Was this Lake Ontario all over again?

And then a street sign: “Sint-Salvatorstraat”. “What? That’s just up the street from home!”

I was stopped, stunned, discombobulated. (Sigh)

I hadn’t been going east. I’d been going north. The reason that there weren’t any cross streets on the left was that the water was over there, behind the warehouses.

On the map, the curving street that I eventually found is at the top right, under “Play” in the word “Playground”.

***

Spun around enough for one day, I retreated to Bar Oswald (new to me) for a beer I’d never heard of (Lola).

I sat at a window table and watched the rain continue to fall

It’s raining, not a torrent but steady.  Holding an umbrella would be a natural choice.  But not the only one.

How about letting the hair get really wet, with drops falling into the eyes?  How about tilting the head upwards a bit rather than the protection of down? And no hood.

Why not?

I figure my skin is drip dry and the temperature is 13 degrees Celsius, so hypothermia is out of the question.  So let’s get wet.

***

Now consider the words we use.  Are we pretty ordered, with a nice sprinkling of nouns, verbs and adjectives, not to mention correct punctuation? Or are we willing to be loose in the vowels … with words bubbling up from the unknown and spilling into the world? Far more poetry than prose, far more airy than solid.

What will people think of me if I just flow in the speaking, if I don’t make a lot of sense, if I throw in four adjectives in a row … just for fun?

Who cares?

Speaking of which … I’m sitting here with my Ritchie Lemon and Ginger feeling so light, buoyant, porous, not here. (Ahh … that felt good)

***

Today I’m going to roam down a few Ghent streets that are new to me, without Google Maps. Ordinary, extraordinary – doesn’t matter. I’m going to walk into a café that the tourism office has never heard of and drink a beer that I’ve never heard of. Perhaps I’ll even say nonsensical things to the bartender.

Just ’cause