Brussels

As my heel plummeted, for the first time, into European earth...it rained. An impenetrable blanket of gloom wept at my arrival, as if my being there brought some great displeasure to the city. Monotonous, silent, wet. The indiscriminate grey hovered over Brussels, enchanting her with an ancient ballad. Over years of listening, she had come to be shaped by the epic to the point that every stone and brick believed it were a heroine. And it was.

Brussels had survived millennia of arrows and bombardments, fires and occupation. She had been destroyed, rebuilt, and reimagined. Her gilded arches and ornaments shone brilliantly as testaments to the city's earned regality. And though few stones remained that were hewn from Brussels' early achievements, the rain ensured the entire city brandished a unique antiquity. Foliage poured from soft-edged walls and from every alley and brick and cobblestone faster than the rain that brought it. Walking through her tapestry of facades was like meandering through the pages of an illuminated manuscript detailing the secrets of the Trappist brew. It was a city you could get lost in, and I did many times.

When you can't speak French or Flemish, and when your idea of public transportation is the MARTA cross, you suddenly become exceedingly dependent on altruism to find your way around town. Something about a creased, crumbling, damp transportation map motivates others to offer their help, and the universality of a smile in this international city has taught me that there are so many similarities between the continents.