Unfamiliar Beauty

Two men dressed in security uniforms approached us.

“Vut are you doing here in middle of night?” The shorter of the two men asked, automatically knowing we spoke English.

“We uh, need to find a train to get us to Brussels’ city center.” I said.

The security guard looked at the three of us girls with our over-sized backpacks, then shared a glance with his partner. He grabbed my arm lightly,“This place not safe. Hurry to Platform 9 to Midi.”

I slightly yanked my arm away from his grasp, and the three of us scurried away with our half thrown on baggage on our backs.

The guard shouted back at us, “Talk to ze conductor, he help!”

We arrived at Platform 9 just in time as the train pulled up to a stop. We hurried alongside the train until we finally found the conductor.

“Can you help us?” My friend asked.
The plump man glared at us and started speaking fast in a language we weren’t sure of.

“English, no! sprechen Sie Deutsch? Francais?” While we looked at him with confusion, his face turned red and his eyebrows furrowed. “No, English!” He spat on the ground that we stood on and shut the train doors.

As we watched the train leave, we slouched together on a nearby bench for the next thirty minutes waiting for the next train.

It was 2 a.m., two hours after our bus from London dropped us off at the Nord Station of Gare de Bruxelles. We had decided that Belgium would be the perfect place to stay before we had to arrive in France to study. With no hostel reservations and not a lick of knowledge of the major languages of Belgium, we realized these mistakes.

After finally arriving in Midi Station, we wandered the dark city, (with no map), in search of a place to sleep, knowing that the hard, outside ground was nearing to be our fate.

It was close to becoming an hour when we saw two figures in the distance. We could tell by the way they wobbled and sang that they had their fair share of alcohol.

"Hello, ladies!" They sang to us.

Realizing they spoke English, I disregarded the fact that they were drunk, and built up my courage to talk to them.

"Oh you girls travel. You need help?" One of them asked and the three of us agreed.

"Well my name is Batiste and this Pierre. Pierre is an artist and can offer his studio to you." We gave each other cautious glances, but determined they were safe and that it could be an experience of a lifetime.

Even though it was frightening, this experience was my first in a non-English culture. Surely it won't be my last.