Brussels with my sprouts

I've stayed in Belgium only once, in beautiful beautiful Bruges (whose appeal is enhanced if you ignore the pornographic chocolates in shop windows). I've passed through Brussels, though, several times, by air and by rail. Long ago when I was pregnant with my youngest child, and the elder ones were two and four years old, I transferred planes there on the way home from Florence to Durham, not a well-trodden route, but one that fit with our dates and destinations. Husband had gone back ahead of me for work, so, knowing I would be on my own, I had asked the airlines to provide me with assistance. I imagined being met by one of those golf-cart mobiles but instead they sent me a pleasant and very young man, a teen-ager, an American from Minnesota. On foot. He explained that a relative of his, a parent or grandparent, was Belgian and that he wanted to get to know his roots by working in the city for the summer. Fine by me, and I wished him much success, but he certainly did not know his way around the Brussels airport. The place is huge. We got lost several times and very nearly missed the connecting flight and I already knew there wasn't another until the following afternoon. I began to imagine spending a night in a cheap motel with two small children, French fries with mayonnaise, and morning sickness. Oh, and no luggage, because the airlines had announced in Florence that high temperatures had made the tarmac of the runway sticky, so all the bags had been removed from our airplane in order for it to take off safely. (How very reassuring it was to hear that announcement. Not. And me unable to order a glass of wine.)

The kids and I managed to make our connecting flight because the cavernous Brussels airport was practically empty. With the midwestern teen toting our carry-on bags, and the toddler perched on my hip, we moved along at a clip, recovering speedily from our wrong turns. I wondered whether the sparseness of passengers had to do with our travelling on a weekend. Perhaps, I thought, the place is busier on weekdays, when the European Union is open.

Today, the day of the horrific terror attacks, is a weekday. From the reports so far, it sounds as though, sadly, the airport was indeed much fuller. And now it, and the Maelbeek metro station, all of Brussels, all Belgium, all Europe, all of us anywhere who want peace and happiness, are missing our connection.