North Star

Chapter 6: First Impressions

Luxembourg City itself is almost too beautiful to describe. As we drive over the bridge into the old town, I can see the Grand Duchy from above, laid out before me like a glorious old storybook scene. The city is steeped on different levels, built over centuries into the side of the river valley’s cradling sandstone cliffs. It’s a place of incredible contrasts - old meets new; narrow cobblestone streets wind between buildings painted cream and the warm yellow colour of churned butter, with high-turreted grey shingle roofs, right next to modern glass architecture. Banks and art galleries and cute boutique shops sit alongside ancient churches and manor houses. In-between the magnificent stone buildings, neat little gardens and parks and rows of trees are laid out, so ordered and austere that they seem almost unreal. And it’s so incredibly verdant - everything is in its grandest spring finery, the vibrant bright chartreuse green of rebirth, renewal, rejuvenation and new beginnings.

This can be the start of something new for me - the dawning of my very own springtime.

The start of me finally figuring out who exactly I am, and what it is that I actually want out of life.

And what better place to really find myself than here, in this enchantingly pretty fairytale city. 

As we drive past the main fortress into the historic old town towards the University, Theresa explains that Luxembourg’s unique character comes from its location - the tiny country lies between Belgium, France and Germany, and the cultures of all those regions have merged to create something entirely new, and quite extraordinary.

We turn left into a quaint picturesque street lined with maple trees, and that's when I see it.

OH MY GOD.

It's an unforgettable, utterly fascinating place. Although I only get a few seconds' look at it as we drive by, just that momentary glance is enough to pique my curiosity. 

The first thing I notice is a cloud of purple blossoms overhead and on the side of the road, lilac-flowered wisteria vines dripping down their sweet perfume as they cling to the front of a dilapidated manor house.

The building is clearly abandoned - several glass panes in the grand stained glass windows are broken, and the tiles are falling off the oak-shingle roof.

The front garden looks strangely unkempt - hedges that were probably once long ago trimmed into a row of conical-shaped topiary trees have now burst out of their confines, growing this way and that while blanketed beneath a cloak of flowering honeysuckle.  There are a few large shapes in the overgrown garden, visible briefly through the bars of the lichen-encrusted wrought iron entrance gate. I can’t get a proper look at them as we drive by, but they look like statues. White faces carved into marble peek out from beneath a thick carpet of emerald moss, and I wonder how old the statues are, and why they’ve been overlooked and forgotten, left to the cruel mercies of time and weather.

Next to the well-maintained splendour of the surrounding historic buildings, the neglected manor house and untended garden presents a strange mystery.

An unexpected, uninvited word pops into my mind at the sight of it.

DANGER.

Deep down, I instinctively know that this is a bad place - a very, very, bad place. A place of ghosts, of fear, of murder. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if a murder has taken place there before - or might even take place there in the future, some ominous upcoming event marked in fate's calendar. The certainty washes over me like a cold wave, and I'm suddenly covered in goosebumps as an icy chill trickles down my spine.

I’m tempted to ask Theresa about the mysterious house, but I glance over at her and see that she’s got a small pair of reading glasses perched on the top of her nose and is typing something on her phone, probably answering emails from the university or checking my itinerary. 

Right next door to the ruined manor, we drive past an absolutely massive ultra-modern office building, all shiny glass panels and chrome and metal. Above the entrance-way, written in big golden block letters is the name MORGENSTERN INVESTMENTS GROUP with a logo showing a geometric four-pointed star in a circle next to it. A few middle-aged men and women in formal business suits are standing around outside the building, clutching takeaway coffee cups or black briefcases as they talk amongst themselves. We pass a few more similar buildings after that - high-tech office blocks that house the headquarters of various European banks, financial services companies and the like - and I realise that we are now passing through the famous business sector.

We eventually drive out into a quieter, leafy neighbourhood, and the houses lining the streets start to look older and larger the further we go - like driving back into the past.

It’s as if the present-day, state-of-the-art business area we passed through moments ago was just an illusion, a strange dream woven into the dizzying tapestry of contrasts that make up this place.

“This suburb is called Ville Clervaux,” Theresa says, finally looking up from her phone. “Most of the dwellings here date back to the medieval period. I’m sure you’ll get to know the area very well. It’s the unofficial University stomping ground, after all. Ah, here we are. Home sweet home.”

The car pulls into a long, lushly hedge-lined driveway, and I spot a majestic stone building perched on the sandstone cliffs above us. Immaculate gardens filled with flower beds, cobblestone paths crossing the campus and ornate fountains are laid out before the grand old university. I immediately recognise it from the university website, and it’s every bit as magnificent and as intimidating as I had expected it to be.

The car passes several groups of students walking between lectures and residence halls. It’s a relief to see a whole mix of ethnicities and cultures - I guess some part of me had been worried that everyone in this small Western European country would just be tall blonde blue-eyed giants, but here on campus it’s a real melting pot. A dark-skinned girl wearing a lavender hijab which fades into sky blue (paired with a super cute cream jumper and skinny jeans) waves at us as we pass by, and her companion, a red-haired boy in preppy cargo shorts and a striped polo tee, salutes the car in a joking fashion pulling himself up to attention with mock solemnity.

“That’s my little brother Étienne we just drove past,” Theresa says. “He’s the jokester of the family. And that was his girlfriend Aamira with him. Chances are you’ll see them around the Philosophy department a bit, they’re both PhD students there.”

I nod my head, gazing out at the beautiful surroundings.

After a few minutes we stop in front of an elegant old double-story residence hall, with the words “Marie-Adélaïde House - International Students’ Residence Hall” engraved into a brass name plate above the entrance. 

Just like everything else in this magical place, it looks like something sprung straight out of a fairytale.

The driver takes my luggage out of the boot, and as we walk towards my new home (or home for the next six months, at least), Theresa tells me that I have the rest of today to settle in and to do whatever I like. Today the “house mother” will show me where the dining hall and residence hall common areas are, and then tomorrow a representative from the Orientation Welcoming Committee will meet up with me at 9am for a campus tour, after which they’ll take me to the registration office. There I’ll be issued my student card and given a pack of orientation materials. I’ll also be issued my class list, with my first lecture in two days time on Monday morning. 

It’s all so much information to take in, and my head is spinning just trying to absorb it all. 

I can’t believe I actually get to live here. Just wait until everyone back home sees the photos I’m going to send them of this place. They’ll think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

And maybe I have.