I don't care what you say...I'm moving to Brussels

Oh my gosh. I am in love with another man. His name is Mr. Belgium A. Brussels. We met on Thursday and although I was cranky, hungry and tired, it was love at first sight. The train ride that we thought would only take us a quick 2.5 hours, really took 5 hours of travel. First we took the wrong train, the wrong direction. After we figured out that fiasco, it was smooth sailing. I really should have eaten more for breakfast, because it wasn’t until 3:30 that we were settled and able to eat lunch. Alicia and I had our first “confrontation.” My stomach was cramping I was so hungry and once that happens there is no stopping me. I suggested we eat immediately, baggage in tow. She suggested we find the hotel. Out of all the maps we had, none had the street which the hotel was located on. She suggested we keep looking, I suggested we stop and eat. The travel gods insisted sarcasm to ensue. “Okay Erica, we’ll stop and eat RIGHT NOW because I know you are hungry and I know how you get when you are hungry, so, fine, we’ll eat now.” “No, it’s fine.” I contest. “I’ll wait until we get to the hotel.” “No, really let’s eat now because you are getting cranky and I can tell.” “It’s fine! Let’s just find the damn hotel even though we don’t know where we are going and no one will tell us where the street is that our hotel is on.” “Nope, let’s stop and eat now because you are cranky.” Alicia defers. “Stop talking to me so condescendingly! I’m not a child.” I conclude.

We continued to walk in circles, desperately wanting to enjoy the new surroundings, but hurriedly attempting to locate our hotel. We attempt a new plan of action; ask a cab driver to take us to our hotel. “You want me to take you there? I refuse. Only because it is right there.” He chuckles and points to the nearest intersection. “You go straight and then right and then you are there.” He simplifies. We conclude to only ask cab drivers for directions from now on.
Once we got our baggage situated in the room and asked the concierge for eating recommendations, we concluding upon a “cheap, very good” café a short walk from our hotel. There I feasted upon pesto spaghetti and mineral water, while Alicia picked a sandwich. The waiter fell in love with Alicia and gave us memento postcards of the restaurant so that we may come back. And that we did. After eating a late lunch, we walked around to gain our sense of location, take pictures and actually enjoy the scenery. A few hours later, we changed for dinner and returned to the same café. The same waiter immediately recognized the “California Girls” and seated us in a very small corner, blocked by a glass wall leading to the front entrance. I said he put us there so only he could talk to us. Alicia joked that people could only talk to us using sign language. We dined on much needed wine and a split plate of lamb and cous cous for only 8 Euro TOTAL. Amazing I know. Sure enough a young man walking past the glass entrance, pointed to Alicia, smiled and made a praying motion with his hands. “What is he doing?” He pointed to the sky, and her face and smiled and continued with the same motion. We then realized that he was just so smitten by Alicia he prayed and saw angels or something or another. Again we were forced to read sign language.

Friday morning, we wake up anticipating the arduous day ahead of us. We were told that the breakfast provided by the hotel was included in our stay. Alicia’s dad is friends with the General Manager of the hotel and informed him of our stay. I always feel like a celebrity when these chance opportunities present themselves. Am I deserving of them? No. Do I refuse? No. Before falling asleep we had made a pact that one or both of us were going to make us of the hotel gym. I am pleased to announce that both of us used the gym for close to an hour. I am allegedly on vacation AND working out. What has gotten into me? After the gym, we hit the continental breakfast just a voraciously. Omelettes, croissants, juice, prociutto, fruit, yes.

Next, a museum entirely about Brussels. Boring. I am all for museums and can very much appreciate art in its various forms, but when NOTHING is printed in English and no audio tapes are presented, even for me to purchase, how am I supposed to know what the significance of the various items is? I very much try to not be one of those people who acts like they are superior or more deserving because they are American and speak English. But I am coming to learn that English is the dominant language everywhere. And it just would have made sense if one of the two languages translated regarding the art was in English. After paying our 3 Euro, we probably spent about 15-30 minutes tooling around the artifacts. Next the Mannequin Pis. It is what it is. A statue of a boy pissing.

After we experienced what the city has to offer, we expanded our horizons and headed out to the Atomion. A giant structure of an atom of iron. An exact replica, 175 billion times the size, so I read. I could have seen it, taken a picture, and moved on my way, but we were told we HAD to go to the top. So, to the top we went. 9 Euro read the sign, but the male attendant charged us 7 Euro. Do you see why I love this city?

After waiting in line for a half hour to get on the elevator to head to the top, I was ready to go. But then you have to take the pictures of the 360 degree view of Belgium. Done. Then you wait in line to get back down the elevator. Done and done. Back on the metro. It amazes me that Alicia and I have actually been able to maneuver through the metro system in the various cities. We are two very smart young women, but they really do stack the cards against you. Nothing is in English, the stops and starts are difficult to find, it’s just plain confusing. You really do have to be paying attention. I feel like I am in lecture sometimes. You aren’t able to relax. If you do, you miss your stop, end up going the wrong way, get pick pocketed, or get raped. Running joke between me and Alicia; whenever we enter an area that looks sketchy, or it’s getting dark, or we enter the subway, I always remark, “Oh, this is the part in the trip when we get raped. I thought it be much later, but I guess it’s better to get it over with.” Morbid, I know. But hilarious none the less. Anything to make the overwhelming shadiness seem a little less shady, and a little more funny.