“Railways are well represented in the world of Hergé, with a wide selection of stations and trains used by Tintin. Here is a memorable example…”

I was just about to go on strike from writing. Maybe it’s because I’m getting soft, but the charge of winter that threatened to continue through April was really starting to get to me. And I don’t want to even speak too soon because I know how weather works in these parts. But the sun and more notably the first flowers are finally out and the petals of said blooms are just starting to fall away with a dramatic flourish.Taken altogether it’s rather captivating to witness.

The tulips that were hardly awake earlier this month as my sister and I traversed Keukenhof Gardens are now at their fullest expression here in Belgium. They now have star shapes of ephemeral curiosity, and soon each petal will fall away. The plants will be relegated to anonymity until this time next year when the likes of me are once again searching for signs of a meaningful and lasting spring.

You know how when you’re in one kind of mood, you assume that the rest of the world is operating under the same baseline of temperament? Today feels like that. Humans living here in the north who were all wrapped up in hoods and scarves are now, if their belief system allows it, stripped down to pasty-hued arms and legs. I say pasty because I’m talking right now about me as I walk through Brussels. It’s 80F/26C and in the warmth of the morning sun it seems like we’re all pretty smiley, no matter how winterized we look.

I have a train to catch in the early afternoon and have opted to walk the 7K to the station from my hotel. I do it because I’m dying for some fresh air and warmth. I do it because it feels prescriptive, and I’m dying to walk out of this long winter season. I also do it because, rolling luggage and waves of tourist groups be damned, I’m also a little bit crazy.

But honestly, I looked forward to the chance to roll through the various quarters of Brussels. I don’t know much about this patchwork of a city, but I find it a bit notable that it doesn’t boast a long list of anchoring tourist attractions like some of the other capital cities on the continent. There’s a crazy molecular looking thing that sent me googling when I caught in on the horizon last night at sunset. Also the art in this town has a funky and nearly contrarian edge and I like it because it draws you into taking an extended look. Visitors also have the worthwhile sites of the Grand Place, the churches and, of course, the fountains of varying repute.

And of course there is also the excellent food and drink with varying levels of redeeming nutritional value. But no one cares about what I just wrote after “good food”. If you’re like me then you wish waffles and chocolate were two of the four so-called basic food groups.

This is by no means a touristic review of Brussels, but what I have found most interesting to observe are the people, the advertisements, and maybe more specifically the tangle of languages that form the arteries of the city. And maybe every city has this aspect, but here on a day where I’ve got some extra time to kill, I find it worthwhile to wander around and observe all of it in action.

I can’t tell you exactly where I walked, rolling luggage and all along “quaint” (read: not suitable for rolling luggage) cobblestone sidewalks, but as I made my way up one side street with shop windows bearing Belgian and Turkish flags, one vendor nearly poked my eye out as he suddenly propped open the umbrella on his vegetable cart. We both jumped back in surprise but then immediately smiled at each other in mutual apology. Again, I think it is the warmth of the sun that has all of us dialed into a bright and unflappably good humor. I continued my general progression to Brussels Midi train station, but invariably made my route a Family Circus-style trajet and diverted to wherever I noticed a stretch of park space. Josaphat Park, the Botanical Gardens. It all only made me happier.

After over five kilometers of walking I eventually reached the area of la Bourse (the stock exchange). I decided to pause for a mid-morning coffee, so I installed myself at a bar for a cup of long black that happily was accompanied by a small pastille of chocolate. Yes, Belgian chocolate. I listened to the barista as she made transactions with the customers filtering in—her mood matched the weather and she moved easily between at least three languages, depending on the client. I spied a Help Wanted sign that was posted near my chair—the only qualification, it seemed, was to be a polyglot like her. I didn’t find it surprising. Proficiency in negotiating this daily nexus that is life is as Belgian as the chocolate that came with my coffee.

I finished my cup and then embarked upon a final stretch of roads that would dump me out at the train station. I still made my best go at detouring because I wanted to linger in this particular moment at this place in the cyclical year. I fully realize that soon the days will grow consistently better and I will forget once again about how drastically gratified I felt for having at last passed the threshold from an impersonal winter to a more open and chaleureux spring. It’s a remarkable practice in appreciation.

The days, to be honest, were already growing longer despite the persistent wind and rain—but soon it will be summer and all of us will be outside and buying into the false assumption that Northern Europe will go on like this indefinitely. Then the season will starts to shift anew and we’ll quietly note the leaves piling up and curling on the ground. I know that that too will have its beauty—but I don’t want to think that far ahead. For right now I’m going to focus on my present journey, dragging a collection of belongings around that tug at my elbow. I’ve got a bit more of Belgium worth investing in before I must board a train and return to the other aspects of this life cycle.