“Dear mother and father,”
I’m standing on the Vossenplein daily flea market in the historical Marollen district. It has been around since 1873. Many locals – including myself – love spending their day here. It’s always fun to look at dead people’s stuff.
“My eyes have seen many tears since I had to leave home so suddenly. Life here is quite lonely and hard and cold.”
I’ve just bought a postcard, stamped in 1915. It has a church in ruins on it. I purchased a great many of my possessions here: dragon drinking glasses; bedroom furniture; an interbellum rich man’s portrait; the only CD and record I own (I cannot play them); my 70s shades; a statue of a llama and a 1950s vacation photo of a family that isn’t mine.
“Time goes slow. Days are spent waiting. We don’t know what will happen, nor when.”
After I have crossed the flea market three times and have noticed that many wristwatches’ pointers stand still, I go for an appetizer: cooked snails sold at a little stand nearby.
“It feels like ages since I last saw everyone. I long to come back home soon and eat a hot meal prepared by mother.”
While the market vendors slowly clean up in the afternoon, I always have a late lunch and a good Trappist beer in one of the many traditional cafés. I can highly recommend La Clef d’Or. Get ‘Stoemp’. It doesn’t get any more ‘Brusselish’ than this dish.
“All my love, 20th of April 1915, Ypres.”
