I Am Belgium, Madam, Not French

When I was in high school, my favorite author was Agatha Christie. I devoured all her books and my ultimate detective was Hercule Poirot. In every book, after some character would call him a strange little Frenchman, the tiny man would say, "I am Belgium, Madam, not French." Back then, I didn't even know where Belgium was, nor would I fathom ever visiting. But, here I am with Rosemarie on the train that left, as I knew it would, exactly at 10:25 a.m.

The train station, Paris Nord, was pigeon heaven and since I despise birds, we did not eat anywhere within the complex. Instead we walked to a sidewalk cafe across the street. Our morning croissants were as buttery and flakey as any that we've had - I swear, is there a bad piece of bread in this entire country?

"Oh, boy," she said watching the departure times fall like dominoes on the board. "Auntie Lily would have a field day with all those numbers."

Our train left from Platform 9, but I told her it was 9 3/4 just like in Harry Potter and we'd have to run into the wall to get to the train.

We're riding backwards, watching the Paris countryside zip by us at a crazy fast speed. We'll be in Belgium in two hours, and right now the sun of the French capital has given way to the mist of the green lush fields.

"Did I pack my lipstick?" she asked. "I don't want to meet Serge without lipstick."

It's safely in the suitcase, but really even if she forgot it, with all these queens around, there will be plenty of shades to borrow.

Belgium Morning