03/22/2016
I grew up in Belgium, about an hours drive from Brussels. To go back to the US each summer, we'd take the train from Le Roux to The Brussels Airport. I remember the smell of Frites stands, and the giant, butcher paper cones the frites came in that would soak with grease. I remember giggling at Mannekin-Pis with my sister, and standing awe-struck in front of the flower carpet in the Grand-Plas. I went to Brussels to take the ACT and some AP tests... for some college interviews, to participate in MEP... I remember the best waffle stand in one of the metro tunnels... you couldn't get anything fancy on them, but they were thin, and warm, and had so much melted sugar on the outside that they were almost crunchy. I love Belgium, and its people. They saw me through my adolescence. Living there was and is a huge part of my identity. Some of my happiest memories will always be there... Walking around S.H.A.P.E with my friends eating baguettes from the G.B., the hot air balloon festival that happened from the chateau down the street each year on my birthday... the snails, and the frites, and the hot chocolate, the kisses, three in a row, to introduce yourself. I can't describe the feeling of waking up to see that a place and people that you love are being destroyed. I am too far away... I want to be close enough to help sweep up the shattered glass, to bring water and blankets to the wounded... to mourn with those who mourn their dead. My dear Belgium, I know that I am only an adopted daughter, but I am, and always will be yours.
