As I write, the tents and elephants and sequins are being packed into pantechnicons and driven away to another town. The carnival, my dear friends, is over. I so wanted to end this blog in Hollywood style, but I never even got to show you Gent. Perhaps I can ask you to imagine that I woke from a dream, and you were there, and you were there, and you were there.
Whatever happens next, well, I'm not sure. I'm neither sure what happens next nor how to process it.
This has all been so much, much harder than I anticipated. Yet I look around at the transplanted Euro-seedlings that make up the population of this city and everyone else seems to be ok.
Time isn't linear, of that I'm certain. If it were, I would have arrived in Brussels with my grown-up social skills relatively undented by the short journey. Instead I am the girl of twenty who could barely speak, and who did not think anyone would want to know her. This is a cruel trick. I should smack Time's arse for that one.
It will get better, I know. It has before, and it will again.
If any of you want to keep in touch, my email address is on my profile. It would be lovely to hear from you.