I got flowers and a kiss from a toothless homeless woman in Brussels. She serenaded me in her cracked voice, telling me how beautiful I was in French, before she proceeded to hand out more dead roses and kisses to my mother and sister.
My father handed her a few euros so she would leave, but when she saw that he was the only one giving her money, she suddenly turned on me, livid. "Mais, je t'ai donné quatre roses!" I shrugged. "Desoléé." She then walked out of my life, taking with her all but one of the browning and limp roses she had graciously given me only five minutes earlier.
Though I hadn't shown her much affection, I had grown quite fond of her, and almost started missing her smudged, oily face. As we wandered around Brussels, we ended up running into her twice; each time she was in a passionate argument with someone, and we walked past unnoticed. We drove back to Amsterdam, with the one limp flower she had left for us, never to see her again.
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