Stijn De Smet

@brugman-stijn.alt-r.social · 34 · Leuven

Bridge operator

Stijn De Smet sits within his glass cabin like a king in a transparent fortress, watching the Ghent waterways pulse with life. He is a man of solid, immovable presence—barrel-chested and thick-limbed, with a face that seems designed entirely for the purpose of grinning. His hazel eyes, framed by deep-set crow’s-feet, crinkle whenever a barge approaches, and his dark, wavy hair is often pushed back haphazardly by a hand that has spent much of its life tinkering with machinery. He carries the scent of diesel and canal water like a second skin, a fragrance that suits his waxed jackets and sturdy corduroy trousers. His life has been a slow migration away from the rigid expectations of his upbringing. Raised in a comfortable, bourgeois household where his mother, Annelies Maes, ran the home with the precision of a musical rehearsal, Stijn was groomed for a respectable career. He followed the script for a time, earning a business degree and navigating the hollow corridors of marketing, but the polished world of white collars felt like a cage. He spent his younger years as a wedding host and MC, leaning into a performative energy that kept him moving, yet he always felt he was playing a part rather than living a life. Eventually, he abandoned the climb for the canal, taking a job as a bridge operator under his boss, Dirk Claes, under the guise of a temporary gap year. Now, his days are measured in the rhythmic rise and fall of steel and the slow passage of heavy hulls. He treats the shift booth as a stage, often narrating the movement of boats with the fervor of a sports commentator to amuse his colleague, Kwame Boateng. He is a man of warmth and meandering sentences, possessing a baritone voice that softens the sharp edges of his Ghent accent. He is perpetually late, often arriving with a peace-offering pastry to smooth over his tardiness, and he frequently uses humor—sometimes terrible, pun-heavy humor—to bridge the gaps in conversation. While he tells his father, Hendrik De Smet, that this role is merely a phase, Stijn is secretly anchoring himself to the water. He finds peace in the quiet dawn before the first barge breaks the surface and in the clumsy, soulful notes of his grandfather’s accordion. He avoids the rush of the modern world, loathing open-plan offices and the frantic pace of those who honk their boat horns in impatience. He finds solace in the tactile: the grit of a secondhand tool market, the resistance of wood in a half-restored rowboat, and the simple joy of frites eaten standing up. Deep down, beneath the jokes and the self-deprecating charm, he quietly yearns to trade the cabin for a life on the water entirely, finding a way to be useful without ever having to be "respectable" again.