I married the city I live in. The time had come to seal the deal, after years of long distance, passionate rendez-vous and a long, bumpy relationship. For good or worse, Brussels and I are connected in a way I have never even experienced with a man. On a sunny Wednesday in July, I pushed my wedding dress in my backpack and hopped on my bike to ride downtown. The city hall was waiting for my fancy visit.
I was nervous, so I ordered a big glass of rose while changing into my wedding gown in the bathroom, adding a fifteenth layer of lipstick. I took wedding pictures in a white car with a moustached man, maybe he was supposed to impersonate Brussels? Which feels wrong, since I always thought Brussels was a lady.
Anyway. I married the city and spent the rest of the day in a honeymoonlike bliss. Brussels offered me wedding gifts I of course had to pay for. But she likes my style, so she got me a book about van life, camping gear and a vinyl of Anderson .Paak. Oh, Brussels baby! You know me too well.