Thursday 12 December on 7:30 p.m.
Writingbrussels is back with more stories: My Land is Your Land.
We will be hosted in a prestigious venue: the Embassy of Slovakia. Avenue Molière 195 in Ixelles (map).
Los ángeles éramos nosotras en ese motel deshilachado de las afueras al que habíamos ido a parar mi marido y yo nuestra última noche en Estados Unidos. Llegaste en un uber, como se estila ahora en casi todas partes, y aunque me opongo de manera recalcitrante a la uberización, decidí que, a partir de ese momento, como se trataba de vos, la cosa adquiría otro significado y, sea como fuere, te perdonaba.
No me acuerdo si subiste la escalera o yo bajé, creo que fue más bien esto último, pero lo que cuenta es que nos instalamos en el cuarto, grande como un salón de baile, a una mesita que estaba al lado de la ventana, y charlamos como si nos hubiéramos dejado de ver ayer. Continue reading
Irene lived in a house on the outskirts of the Walloon village of Tweedledum. She took pride in saying that she was the village’s first but also last inhabitant because her house was the final one on the road that brought visitors in and out of the village. It also marked the entrance into the woods that separated Tweedledum from Tweedledee, another village that lay on the other side of the woods. Irene loved where she lived because most of her windows gave on directly to the woods’ first trees and made her feel like she lived immersed in nature.
Nora lived in Tweedledee. Her house also marked the entrance of the woods but on the other side. She didn’t enjoy the quietness of nature as much because a highway ramp lay just a few hundred meters from her front door. Most drivers turned left when they got off the ramp and drove directly in front of Nora’s house into the woods so as to save a few kilometres but also precious time by avoiding the constant traffic on the main road. The shortcut through the woods was hardly secret and Nora saw a procession of cars drive past her windows all day long. The old dirt track that had once only been meant for tractors was now used by most of the local commuters.
The state of the road worsened as you got deeper inside the woods. Continue reading
(O cómo ver lo que nos falta en la vida de los otros)
Cuentan que en la ciudad de Bruselas hace, ya muchos años, en el majestuoso edificio del Palacio de Justicia tuvo lugar un largo juicio, de lo más curioso, singular, terrorífico.
Fue el caso de Xavier, un diplomático parisino moderadamente conservador, como todos los parisinos que por entonces vivían en Bruselas. De unos 50 años y poco pelo, él vivía cerca de la place Dailly. Un jueves, de la noche a la mañana se encontró solo en todo su edificio. Espantado por la desaparición de sus vecinos, fue a denunciar tal hecho a la policía del districto de Schaerbeek. Continue reading
Artwork by Enrique Cropper
The next day George stepped out of the lift, as usual, and ambled down the corridor towards his office. The ‘Please keep this door closed at all times’ sign on the door of Archive 9D greeted his eyes. George couldn’t resist peeping in through the reinforced glass window. The fluorescent lamp in his corner was still lit.
“Strange”, thought George, “have all the others blown?”
He opened the door and flicked the light switch. No response.
“So now it’s not the just the functionaries of the ERA who no longer follow instructions, some of the lights don’t work either!” he mocked gently to himself.
George stepped out and entered his office. As he reached to turn on his computer he flinched at the sight of his office plant. Overnight, all its leaves had withered brown and were now lying dead on the office carpet.
“What next?” cried George, expressing growing frustration at the various dysfunctions of the last 24 hours. “I only gave it some water yesterday.”
click on pic
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