Flix Bus Brussels

 Flix Bus Brussels

I left my hostel in central Brussels well organized. My computer, phone, earbuds, and backup battery were all 100% charged. I sat patiently on the steps leading into the six-bunk hostel room while the last precious electrons coursed into my phone. I wasn’t going to be satisfied with 95%. It was only 9am, an hour before the listed checkout time. A young woman snoozed in the top bunk above my recent sleeping spot. I didn’t want to disturb her, thus the resort to the steps. My bus for Paris didn’t leave until 12:40. I had time to burn. 

I successfully navigated the Brussels subway (four stops according to Google maps) arriving at the main train station by 10, time enough for me to grab a satisfyiong bowl of lentil soup chased with a bottle of peach juice; healthy, filling; virtuous. 

It took me about 15 minutes of wandering though the train station before I found the Flix Bus stop on the north side of the station. The street was bordered by a clean, chest-level, shelf of shiny concrete. I hopped up and lay out my larger backpack. It made a comfortable back support as I sprawled  myself out, seeking comfort for the 2.5 hour wait. My phone was down to 85% so I plugged it into my supplemental battery. I laid this little contraption down beside me, tucking it in so that it was partially hidden beneath my black dress shirt. I took out my P.D.James mystery and picked up the story of the grizzly murders that Dalgleish was attempting to solve.

Flix and the other private bus companies have no status vis-a-vis the Belgian transportation world, so they must make do with informal waiting areas on side streets, within the orbit of the larger, train universe. There were no imminent bus departures so the waiting area was lightly populated with the usual assortment of college kids, middle-aged women carrying plastic bags,and anyone else trying save a buck. The train to Paris, for instance, ranges from 119Euros to nearly 200; the bus is 30-75. I paid thirty-nine. 

At one point I became conscious of a woman standing uncomfortably close to my right shoulder. I remember feeling a tiny bit of unease. She seemed out of place, not scruffy exactly, but dour. Her hair was cut short, or tucked tightly around her scalp. Most of all I think it was her scowl that struck me. There is a gaiety surrounding travelers that I didn’t notice until I had her as a contrast. But she was only there in my space for a few seconds, not long enough for me to even formulate these thoughts.

When I got to the next chapter break in my novel I reached down to see if my phone had reached 100%. I was feeling rather self-satisfied knowing that I’d provisioned myself for the full four and a half hour bus trip. I wouldn’t have to choose between listening to music or reading the news. Too often on this trip I’d been inconvenienced by a low battery. I was happy that I was learning to plan ahead.

I grabbed the shiny black, cylindrical battery and pulled the connecting chord to the phone. 

There was no phone. 

I jumped up like I’d been sitting on a cat’s tail. I thrust my hands hungrily into the area under my backpack. I looked over the edge of the concrete wall — a one-in-a-million shot, but I was desperate. 

No phone. 

The little connecting chord was lying neatly on the concrete, still lodged in the battery connector. 

I rememberd what the bus driver in Antwerp had said, twice, as he let out passengers. 

“Look out for the pickpockets!”

My stupidity had gotten me again. 

Now, several hours later I also remember something Freud said: when you lose something it is because you wanted to be rid of it. Obviously a rank generalization, but I must wonder if there is some truth to his maxim in my case. 

My four-year-old phone was barely functional. The back cover was loose, allowing me to see the inner workings of the device. The battery life had shrunk. Strangely enough the screen was not cracked despite my eschewing a protective cover for all this time I wanted a new phone. I resolved to buy a new phone in Paris. I had prudently written down the directions to my next Airbnb. That would allow me to delay my purchase and give me time to seek out a bargain,. 

Cursing myself….for being myself, I walked into the train station to pee. On the way I passed a little shop featuring headphones, phone covers and the like. On a lark I decided to ask the proprietor for advice. A genial, balding fellow immediately pointed me to the lone Samsung phone that he had on display for three hundred euros. 

I bought it.