A Different Pace

I live on a very quiet street and it brings back memories of the street I grew up on in Belgium. Everyone came home for lunch, my Dad from work, which was five minutes from our house, my brother and sisters and I. I rode my bicycle to school all through middle and high school, no matter what the weather, and I did not mind. It was a twenty minute ride, twenty-five if there was a strong wind,and it allowed me to come home for a two hour hot lunch, homemade. This was a time when the milkman delivered milk to your door, the butcher brought phoned in orders, the baker and beermerchant delivered to your front door,so did the vegetable merchant.And they all lived about ten minutes fro our house. On Sunday, you could hear the churchbells from your bedroom window, calling us to Catholic Mass. The family doctor came any hour,day or night, if we were ill. It seems strange to me, that this was part of my upbringing,considering I was born in 1957, not 1907. I miss that sense of belonging that is possible in small communities very much. Perhaps, if gas prices keep going up, and life in general becomes more and more expensive, small communities with stores very close by, will make a rebirth, out of necessity. It is not the standard science-fiction fantasy, I know, but one I am partial to. It was not a better world, people do not change that much, but it was a world in which people were more closely connected.It was also a world of strict social rules and cohesion. There was a small percentage of families that were immigrants from Morocco, and with their brown skin and dark hair and eyes, they were treated as outcasts. I remember staring at a young Moroccan child, carrying a large bottle of orange soda home. I was about eight, about her age. She was happily singing, and stopped when she realized my gaze fixated on her. I thought her exotic, but my persistent stare made her angry and she made a face at me. It probably did not help that i was feeling rather smart in my pretty Sunday dress, and that she was wearing a humble housecoat. I always remembered, to this day, her annoyance, and my blushing realization that I was not the first person to make her feel ill at ease. A year or two later, I was on a rare bus ride with our housekeeper, and there was a beautiful North-African young woman who got on the bus with her brother and mother. This time, I felt inadequate in comparison to her beautiful almond shaped eyes that had long, dark lashes, her very smart powder-blue coat and stylish patent leather purse, also powder-blue that sported a very cute tiger keychain. Her long, frizzy hair flowed halfway down her back, and she stood,gracefully, comfortably in stylish high heels and bell bottom pants. I thought she was beautiful, and I felt quite ordinary in my cotton summer dress and very short haircut. Many years later, I would become friends with a wonderful young doctoral student from Morocco, who was nothing but kind and chivalrous to me. To this day, there are time I miss him, his easy wit and sharp intelligence, the way he seemed to watch out for me. For many years, we exchanged Christmas cards, and then, one year the cards stopped, and I somehow misplaced his address. I still dream sometimes that we get to meet again and catch up. Graduate school was a great time. I met students from all over the world : India, Bangladesh, Egypt, Morocco, Argentina, Bolivia,Japan,France,...Many  became good friends. To this day, My french roommate, who lives in Paris now, correspond and exchange Birthday and Christmas gifts. My two friends from India and Bangladesh were dear to me like brothers, and made me feel safe and loved. I had roommates from Argentina, Bolivia, Puerto Rico and Japan.