I ride along the river Sambre. Cycling along rivers means no surprises; there are no sharp turns, you do not climb and you do not descend. It's almost boring, breathtakingly beautiful. Something ungraspable hangs in the air, like dreams that were never followed. The houses give way for industry. A long transport boat passes me, a graffiti text warns for a Dutch ship and I laugh with the sun. The Netherlands is far behind me.
When the evening falls I stop in a town along the river. People sit on the market square, young parents with babies and elderly. I park my bike along the sidewalk and everyone on the terrace looks at me. I look for my wallet, an old man starts asking me questions. "Come sit with us," he says and pulls a plastic chair up to the table where him and his wife are sitting. They are both in their seventies. The woman looks at me through the lines that are here eyes and keeps her arms crossed over her chest, they do not understand what I am doing and definitely don't think it's a good idea. The man orders half a liter of beer for me.
"You alone on the bike to Portugal?" the old man says, "you must be single."
"You do take the pill right?" he says and pushes his thick index finger into my leg. His eyes are a milky white, not much happens around here.
They want fries and I wonder where I will sleep. "You need to eat," the man says. I explain I will cook couscous but they do not want to hear it. With much effort they get off their chairs and I offer to go with them. "Biensur," the man says.
We slowly make our way across the square, past the church and to the snack bar. I say I do not eat meat. They shake their heads in disapproval. A man outside the snack bar tells me I am crazy and that it's dangerous to do this alone. I assure myself out loud that people are good. The three of us walk back to the bar where the second round of Jupiler is ordered. "Tomorrow I will read in the papers that a young woman was raped here," the man says.