Disclaimer
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It would be odd to cut the following story into pieces.
So it became a bit longer than our average writings.
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When I travel between Ghent and Antwerp, I usually sit close to where I put my foldable bike, carefully wedged in that cavity formed by two rows of seats. Today was no exception to this rule.
As a matter of fact, it could have been any given weekday; as soon as I sat down, I took my notebook and starting scribbling down a few research ideas.
On my head, a set of giant head phones, converting Amenra's repetitive drones into an inspiring sludge that seeped into my racing mind.
Opposite me, an older lady, donning a green park ranger's type of hat and matching boots, observing me through an old-fashioned pair of glasses, resting on the tip of her nose, hiding behind a foolish smirk.
Bleep.
She triggered my nutty people detection device.
For a moment I felt safe behind my calculations, buried underneath thick layers of sound.
'What are you doing?', she suddenly asked in an English accent that sounded as if it was still healing from a recent fracture.
I couldn't tell where she was from. Besides a forest lodge maybe.
I pretended neither seeing nor hearing her, but I realized soon enough that this approach wouldn't last.
'Excuse me,' she repeated, 'what are you doing? Are you writing a poem?'
I lifted my head phones and decided to play the business card.
'I'm working, madam. And this music inspires me. So if you excuse me, I would rather continue writing.'
'What are you working on?', she suddenly continued in West-Flemish, mistaking my polite retort for an invitation to start a conversation.
'A poem?'
'It's mathematics,' I tried, hoping that this would make her understand that I was doing serious things.
'Interesting,' she replied, and extended her arms.
'Can I have a look at that?'
I decided to give her some of my calculations. If luck was on my side, she'd immerse herself into my writings and get lost.
She stared at my handwriting, not unlike someone finishing a 10 000 piece jigsaw version of the Taj Mahal: completely puzzled out.
'This doesn't look like what I learned at school,' she concluded.
'Of course not,' I thought, 'this didn't even exist when you were at school. That's why they call it current research.'
I remained silent, aware of the fact that the people at the other side of the corridor started staring at me as if I were the oddball.
'What have we become?' she started to complain.
'Plenty of people on this train, and nobody feels like talking to me.'
Bleep.
'You have all become socially handicapped.'
I couldn't help looking up.
Her smile penetrated my bubble and made my realize that my attempts to look busy were as feeble as my excuse not to prove her wrong.
I unplugged my iPod and surrendered.
I appreciated her line of thought, and she had a point.
'Why do you need music for inspiration?', she asked, as if this was an unresolved issue.
'Why not just watch outside, for example? You're on a train!'
'It doesn't work that way,' I said. 'It's not like what I want to write down is hiding behind those daily things.'
'I bet it can be!' was her somehow inviting answer.
'Look, I will show you some of the things I am carrying to Antwerp, maybe it can trigger you to write something.'
And from her old-fashioned slightly faded hippie bag, she took a bunch of green flowers, a plastic bag containing potatoes and a brown paper bag full of chestnuts.
If she wasn't, she at least had them.
Nuts.
Bleep.
'Flowers, cooked potatoes and steamed chestnuts.'
As if that was the most natural thing to have on you.
'Erhm, and what are you going to do with that?', I addressed her now.
The stares from the other side of the corridor didn't bother me any longer.
'I am visiting friends in Antwerp whom I haven't seen for 25 years. This is a present.'
'Where do they live?', I asked, trying to imagine how I'd feel when someone were to give me these presents.
'No idea, I'll find them when I get there.'
Bleep.
She took three pictures from an old crumbled envelope.
'My biggest surprise for tonight,' she said, handing them to me.
'I found these at home, in a box in the attic,' she added.
One was a group picture, which was so blurry and out of focus that it felt as if these people should have been wearing swim suits.
'This is when the television crew visited at our village,' she explained.
It turned out 'Boeketje Vlaanderen' had once shot an episode in the place where she was born.
'This man,' pointing at a murky face in the background, 'was the groom. He's a good friend of mine.'
'And those people?', I wanted to know, showing her the other two pictures.
'Those are his parents.'
A short silence comfortably nested itself between us.
Meeting this old, somehow oddly looking lady who came all the way from Tielt to visit people she hadn't seen for 25 years - carrying a bag with what can only be described as the strangest collection of presents I'd heard from in a while - made me realize that the beauty of life lies in random collisions.
'Can I take a picture of you?', she suddenly asked me.
Had she not just shown me these pictures of the friend she was visiting and his parents, I would have said no.
I didn't.
Call it vanity, but the prospect of a picture with my faded face on it somehow felt like it might one day spark another conversation.
Flash.
'Funny,' I blurted out, 'maybe you can come to Antwerp again within 25 years.'
She looked at me sideways.
'Yes,' I continued, 'when you'll find my picture in a box in the attic. Then you can take the train to Antwerp again, and come looking for me.'
She stared at me. In an almost pitiful way.
'You don't have to look for people,' she enounced.
'You just find them.'
I got off at the railway station in Berchem. Me, and my foldable bike.
Amenra was blasting through my head phones again and I thought about this old lady's words.
She was right.
The flower, the potatoes and the chestnuts had triggered me...
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