by Kyle James
At four on the dot, we were outside looking for the Audi A4 Jerome was driving.
Thirty minutes later we were worried we had messed up our inaugural BlaBlaCar trip, because we had still not seen him. He approached apologetically around four forty-five, greeting us by doing the traditional two-cheek kiss with Ash and then shaking my hand. Not that I was against the two-cheek kiss, but Jerome had studied abroad in New York City and knew our customs.
We zoomed out of Paris, and one thing crossed my mind as I reflected on the first of many cities we would be exploring over the next four months: How does everyone here not die of lung cancer in their forties? The term chain-smoking does not do it justice. These people were breathing two parts oxygen, one part nicotine.
I sat in the small backseat of the Audi and noticed the highway etiquette in Europe was superior to that in the US. Everyone drove in the right lane until they wanted to pass. When they reached a car traveling at a slower speed, they simply passed, quickly moving back into the right lane afterward. There were no slow cars coasting in the left lane, and it made for efficient highway driving. In the US, you often have to pass someone on the right as they drink their Starbucks latte and text their friend while steering with one knee in the fast lane.
Jerome graciously dropped us off at the doorstep of our Airbnb in Brussels. He double-kissed Ash again, shook my hand once, and headed off with a “Ciao!” We had survived our first BlaBlaCar experience, and although I was soaked in sweat and some grown man had kissed my girlfriend multiple times, we’d managed to save 180 dollars.
We chose an Airbnb in Ixelles. This neighborhood had a young population with great nightlife and was surrounded by residential buildings, bohemian restaurants, and Gothic churches. Our place was only fifty-seven dollars a night, leaving us with ninety-three dollars a day for food and beer. Alizee, our next host, had left a key with a neighbor, as she could not meet us in person. We grabbed the key, climbed the four flights of stairs (beats six), and headed to our home for the next few days.
Well, this place has character, I thought as we dropped our packs and looked around. Right away we both noticed the mannequin pieces. There were heads, torsos, and legs scattered all over the floor and tables. It looked like the mannequins were having a board meeting to discuss Q4, and a grenade went off and blew the body parts all over the place.
Eager to explore Brussels, we left to grab dinner and escape the staring mannequins. It had been an ongoing joke between Ash and me for years that I have a thing for mannequins. I constantly whistle at them as we pass by stores, so this made it that much worse that we were sharing a room with seven and a half of them—lots of competition for Ash tonight.
We walked down our street in the chilly evening and turned a corner to a mini city center. We saw packed restaurants with outdoor seating and cool sculptures that led to a small museum in the middle of the square. Every restaurant seemed to be full of happy people chatting and laughing. We entered a bar called De Haus that Jerome had recommended.
We each ordered a Belgian-style beer. They were only four euros apiece, but both contained 8.5 percent alcohol—twice that of most beers back home. They arrived at our table, Ash’s served in a large goblet and mine in a test-tube-like glass held by a wooden contraption. It needed the wood because the bottom of the test tube glass was rounded and wouldn’t stand up on its own.
We enjoyed three more because we were finally in the land of beer. I think it was the best beer I’ve ever had. “Back to the plastic brothel,” we joked when we were ready to go home.
6/14/15
Brussels, Belgium
I awoke to the sound of birds frantically chirping outside the window. I understood about as much of the birds’ conversation as I did the Dutch and French tongues that surrounded us. Today was our only full day in the capital city, so we set out to explore downtown.
We reached the famous Grote Markt, and it was exactly how I’d imagined Brussels would look: Bavarian-style bars, chocolate and waffle shops every few feet, and most notably, cobblestone roads without cars. Caught gazing at the fairy-tale street ahead, we quickly moved aside at the last second as a horse-drawn carriage click-clacked past us. It was transporting a group of tourists who were nonstop photo zombies, numbingly snapping pictures for social media, too busy staring at Brussels through the image of their screens to experience the city in real life. Poor souls, I thought. Unfortunately, those photos would never match the sights, sounds, and smells surrounding us. The problem was, I was no better. I had already taken thirty-five pictures since we’d arrived in the market. I think it was good for me to witness others doing it to realize how depressing it looked.
We followed the crowd down the hill like a current and came upon the Grand-Place, the center square of Brussels, hosting most of the city’s tourists. Despite the swarms of people, it was stunning with its pristine perfectness encrusted in each piece of gobertange calcareous sandstone. Speaking of perfect, we spotted numerous orange waffle food trucks. Jerome had recommended these as the best waffles in Belgium. We planned on getting them the next day.
After taking a few hundred pictures of the town hall, we headed to a bar to drink one-liter beers. I’d often imagined myself holding one of those mugs of beer, like I was drinking from a milk carton with a handle. One mug of beer led to another, and we decided today was just going to be one of those drunken days. We were drinking far more than we should that early, but all the warning signs for a daytime shit show of knuckles-down drinking fell into place. Besides, we had clear skies and sunshine in the land of beer, and nothing else to do except spend the rest of our daily budget.
The combination of copious amounts of ale coupled with the aftereffects of the sun beating down on us all day—and disagreeing on where to go next—led to our first real argument of the trip. This is the problem with alcohol-induced euphoria; it got to the point where after fifteen minutes, we didn’t even remember what we were arguing about, but each of us wanted to win the argument. Ash and I have plenty of things in common, and this is why we enjoy each other’s company. Unfortunately, one of the things we share is our refusal to give in during arguments. It was the classic struggle of trying to have the last word. I know what you’re thinking: that seems stupid and childish. Well … you’re right.
We sat in silence at an outdoor beer garden, an espresso in one hand, a beer in the other. Eventually, I mumbled across the table, careful not to use an apologetic tone, “Do you want to go home?”
“Yeah,” she replied quietly, and she stood up and started walking.
Ash and I were coming down from our initial high of traveling. It was becoming apparent how much time we were spending together. We may have lived together in Denver for two years, but we had never spent twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week together. This much togetherness made us argue like an old married couple. We had not quite figured out how much space the other one needed. Personal space is like ibuprofen: you don’t always need it, but when you do, you need it bad.
6/15/15
Brussels, Belgium → Antwerp, Belgium
I awoke to a rumbling earthquake, my stomach serving as the epicenter. Unfortunately, we didn’t leave ourselves ample time to eat. We had to be home by 11:00 a.m. to finish packing and catch a ride to Jacques Brel metro station to meet Sofie, our BlaBlaCar driver chauffeuring us to Antwerp.
Ash and I were on much better terms today as we set out on a mission to eat waffles from the famous orange food trucks we had heard so much about. Thinking about our next meal is a common excitement for us both. We can usually get through dark times fairly quickly when there is food at the end of the tunnel.
It took thirty minutes of walking before we spotted an orange truck. Our stomachs were furious at this point. You can imagine my disappointment when we discovered that the Brussels city trash trucks were also orange.
As we walked, both of us becoming “hangry,” I had my first real What the hell are we doing here? moment. We were jobless, homel
ess, with a finite money supply, in a country far from home. Like in the movies, it is the true paradox of love and hate. I loved where we were at this very moment. I loved the girl I was sharing this journey with, and I loved using my time the way I wanted rather than being told how to spend my forty-hour workweek. On the other hand, I hated the constant concern we both had that we’d made the wrong decision, and I was troubled that we didn’t have jobs lined up for when we got home.
The fact that I was concerned about having a job four months from now was the epitome of my problems. It wasn’t that I wanted to save the earth in four months or research life-changing medicine. No, I wanted a j-o-b so that I could make money and feel better about how everyone saw me. I was more concerned with my Facebook status and the public view of me than doing what truly made me happy. I suppose admitting the problem is the first step to recovery, right?
Our search for the orange trucks proved unsuccessful, so we settled for a waffle shop in the Grand-Place. This was like going to New York City and only finding pizza in Times Square. The waffles were essentially doughnuts.
We finally made it home with almost no time to spare. We could not afford to miss our BlaBlaCar ride, but we couldn’t get a Wi-Fi signal, which meant there was no way to order an Uber to meet Sofie.
Ash finally found a signal as she sat on my shoulders and stretched toward the router. We sat in silence, our backpacks weighing us down, and waited impatiently for the Uber to arrive.
Unfortunately, we once again failed the test of keeping our cool in tense situations. With all the chaos and stress of missing our ride, we naturally took it out on each other. We had no way else to vent, and ended up yelling at each another, making the lack of Wi-Fi the other person’s fault rather than a simple misfortune.
On-screen, our driver looked like he was playing Pac-Man and we were the colored ghosts. Right when he would get close to us, he would then suddenly turn the wrong way. He eventually made it and stopped the car in the middle of the road, laughing as he proclaimed we were his first ride ever. Of course we were.
I read him the directions to the train station from my phone as fast as I could, but he remained parked in the middle of the road, fumbling with his app, a symphony of honks blaring behind us. He missed the first turn he was supposed to make. We’re screwed, I thought as we passed multiple orange waffle trucks.
We eventually reached the station, and we sprung out of the car as it rolled to a stop. We urgently looked for Sofie’s green Nissan Note. We had been told to meet her at the station, but that point became moot once we arrived: the station took up an entire city block. “Slow down!” Ash yelled twenty yards behind me as I darted from street to street. I was a bit more nimble with my backpack, as it was about a quarter of my weight while Ash’s was nearly half of hers.
As I turned one last corner and was ready to give up, I saw the Note heading away from us. I ran into the middle of the street one hundred yards behind the car and waved my hands frantically in an attempt to make a scene in her rearview mirror. It worked. I saw the bright-red lights of her brakes and watched the Note pull into a parking spot, hazards on.
“Sophie?” I asked in between breaths when I got to the car.
“Hello!” she replied. “I was just about to leave!”
We’d made it.
Sophie turned out to be a sweet Belgian woman in her midforties who worked as a nutritionist, but not in a traditional sense. Her role revolved around creating the information infrastructure for wellness coaches who worked with large corporations.
I wished instead of What do you do? as an icebreaker, people asked, So what makes you the most happy? I would imagine the people who’d figured out life would have the same answer for both. Sophie dropped us off in the middle of downtown Antwerp, and we paid her ten euros for the ride.
The city of Antwerp was gorgeous. It had that small-town feel like everyone might know each other personally; at the same time, it boasted big-city perks like great stores and restaurants. Ash excitedly told me about all the shops in the promenade she would be exploring. I, of course, mapped out all the closest bars.
Our next Airbnb was in the center of the city. How could we afford this, you ask? We were sharing the space with the owner, Lieze, and her boyfriend. We chose to stay at their loft apartment because it would give us our own private porch overlooking the city, and it was only forty-five dollars a night.
The Airbnbs we looked for in each location had the following criteria: our own place (we didn’t want to share the space with anyone unless we had to), air conditioning (this is self-explanatory: European summers are hot, yet Europeans abhor the thought of AC), and Wi-Fi (we needed this to plan our trip, communicate with hosts/drivers, and shamelessly access social media). Most important, we wanted to be in a walkable area of the city to explore its best parts. If there was nothing available with our criteria in a desired part of town, we budged on our own space.
Lieze had left us a key in a lockbox outside. We took the elevator to the third floor, which opened up into the apartment, encompassing an entire floor. There was plenty of room to spread out. We dropped off our packs and headed out to indulge in more local beers.
It is truly amazing how people can create such a great-tasting beer with an alcohol percentage this high. Sure, American beer companies make beers with 9 percent, but most end their names with Ice or Platinum and taste like piss-infused rocket fuel.
Ash headed off to shop. She left me at the outdoor bar.
I ordered my fourth beer of the afternoon, and sat people watching, alone, alongside a table in the promenade. I saw a young girl hopscotching on an imaginary hopscotch course. She got mad at herself when she messed up. There were people all around, yet I was completely zoned out due to the language barrier. That is the best part of people watching in a foreign country: you can watch uninterrupted because you aren’t drawn into other people’s conversations. The unintelligible chatter merely serves as white noise as you scan the crowds, reveling in the day without interruption, almost like watching a foreign movie without subtitles.
When Ash returned, we decided to go meet our Airbnb hosts before my tipsy demeanor morphed into full-fledged drunk.
Lieze and her boyfriend, it turned out, were video game enthusiasts. They also had a love for art. We chatted for about fifteen minutes with the young couple before heading back into the village to barhop at the local pubs.
We sampled Orval, Kriek Boan, Maes, Affligem, Westmalle, and De Koninck, a beer brewed in Antwerp. Suzie, a lovely sixty-year-old bartender, told us they only get the Orval supply every couple of weeks because it’s made in small batches. Sometimes it even takes a month or two before it arrives. Orval refuses to increase production to meet the demand and risk losing quality. (To an American, this business practice seemed extremely respectable but highly questionable.)
We ended our evening eating dinner across the street from our Airbnb at a place with a little bulldog on the sign. It turned out that the bulldog, whose name was Billie, belonged to the owner. Billie strolled around the restaurant like he owned the place. We drank complimentary beers and chatted with the owner about our travels thus far. A fellow traveler himself, he shared some off-the-beaten-path anecdotes and recommendations for Thailand, but made us promise him we would visit an island called Ko Tao. We happily obliged.
We stumbled home afterward, our tummies full from what had to have been five strong beers each. We attempted to unlock the door of our place for twenty minutes, but we just couldn’t seem to get it to open. Lieze and her boyfriend eventually let us in. We all laughed at ourselves in the hallway. They told us it wasn’t the key that wasn’t working. We were pushing the door instead of pulling.
6/16/15
Antwerp, Belgium
I awoke once the sun found her way into the penthouse loft. My head clearly didn’t share my great views on the Belgian beer, and I could hear my pulse in my temples. Thump-thump, thump-thump. I needed to shower to kill my headache, but I cou
ld not get the shower to reach a temperature below one thousand degrees. Our hosts must have thought that if the water didn’t burn off the top ten layers of your epidermis, it wasn’t truly clean. I am more of a smidge-above-lukewarm guy myself.
While Ash took her turn in the cauldron, I headed to grab some breakfast from the Albert Heijn grocery store. I was perusing the fruit aisle when a man who quite literally smelled like a Dumpster passed behind me. I have smelled plenty of foul people in my day but none as nicely dressed as this guy. He was wearing an expensive-looking three-piece suit, yet he smelled like a fridge of broccoli and fish after a two-week vacation. I figured it couldn’t have been him that produced this smell, but after four grocery-cart drive-bys and ten fewer nostril hairs, my suspicions were confirmed.
I returned to find Ash patiently waiting for breakfast on the roof, plates and cups set up. She was a sucker for picnics. We ate our breakfast and got some traveling logistics out of the way. BlaBlaCars and Airbnbs were certainly more luxurious and usually cheaper than hostels and trains, but booking them required constant communication with the drivers and hosts. When all the waffles were consumed and logistics sorted, it was time to indulge in one of our guilty pleasures, going to the zoo.
Our first stop in the Antwerp Zoo loop was the house of butterflies, though it felt more like a house of baking bread. We walked through a room with a temperature well over eighty-five degrees as butterflies of all breeds fluttered around us. The humming of colorful wings put me in a trance, and I felt like we were on an acid trip. The music was warmly tranquil, and I imagined this was a scene out of the world’s nicest island yoga retreats. Just then I thought: Maybe I should invent a yoga studio with butterflies floating around and call it Butterfly with Butterflies? When they land on you during a pose, you are a true yogi.
