Day 1
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I take the wrong train to London, which means I'm 20 minutes early for the train to Brussels, which means I'm 70 minutes late going through transportation security. They tell me I can't go. I start crying. My therapist says there's nothing wrong with a little manipulation.
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The woman next to me on the train has neon green hair and eyebrows. I should dye over the blonde! I'm only having the usual amount of fun.
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Few signs at the Brussels Midi station are in English. I need to pee, but it's €1 to use the bathroom and I can't find an ATM, so I hold my crotch and shed tears while walking in purposeful circles. Where's the metro? It's here, but it's not here. Wait. What if I go downstairs. What if... the letter M... stands for metro?
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When I arrive at the AirBnB, there's someone living in my room. The housekeeper exclusively speaks French. She calls the owner, who made a mistake and promises me a refund I never receive. I'm given a loft bedroom with no lock on the door. I pee.
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It's a two mile stroll to Grand Place, the most walkable gingerbread house in the world. The streets smell like maple syrup and pickpockets. Some guy comes up to me speaking either French or Dutch or German and I screech "I don't know!" because I found an ATM and I will not be bamboozled today, folks, my money is mine.
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Delicious Pimms vin Blanc and beef stew at Roose Blanche. Izzy would love it here. A drag queen does a photo shoot outside my window, and I give her a thumbs up and knock over a fresh pint of beer. All over my book.
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If one good thing happened today, it's that I signed up for a Belgian pub crawl! I meet Pranathi, who buys me my first Jägerbomb. We suck down shots til midnight.
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Day 2
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The club is open until 6 a.m. One of the rose-sellers gives me the last of his bouquet. Pranathi and I sign up for a 2 p.m. walking tour and book Ubers home.
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I give the Uber driver one rose because I have eleven. A mistake. He speaks mostly French, and calls me beautiful. Asks where I'm from. I say Kansas, and he says Texas! Yes, I know Texas!
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When we arrive, he walks around the car to open my door, and types out Are you single in Google Translate. I point to my rainbow fanny pack and say, "I'm gay." He points again to Are you single. We play this game for a minute until I wring my hands and say "Taken!" He has me open the Uber app and tip him right there, and when I hit €3 instead of €5, he yells at me in French. His name is Michel. Another Mike. I swear to God.
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I'm too hungover and self-pitying to attend the walking tour. Instead I order pizza and watch Sherlock until a poor tourist walks into my loft room and says, "This is my room." History repeats itself.
Day 3
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I stroll around the Royal Palace cemetery, filled with oxidized copper statues and stained glass mausoleums. Order the caprese at a French restaurant, and they've run out of basil, so it's only sliced mozzarella and tomatoes. The waitress knows English, but I keep forgetting I know English. I'm barely able to construct a sentence.
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I travel to Bruges, the "Venice of the North," with gorgeous canals and cobblestones that smell like horse shit. The hostel is a labyrinth decorated like perpetual St. Patrick's Day. I'm one of three guests in the establishment.
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On a nighttime walking tour, I learn about Bruges' stepped gables on ancient guild buildings (guildings), and tales of golden eels and haunted nunneries.
A few of us get beers at a karaoke bar. Roberta from Lithuania and Esther from the Netherlands. Esther wears the Dutch equivalent of a drug rug and sketches towers in a commonplace book. She likes Miley Cyrus and ABBA. She's never heard of Bob Dylan and doesn't believe me when I say the drunk performer has a better singing voice.
We share a table with Alberto and Celia from Spain, gay best friends who enjoy bashing Madrid. I'm in good company. Bruges is a liminal space occupied by hundreds of tourists and swans. I don't manage to see a swan, but the tourists are pretty cool.
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Day 4
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Quick visit to the Dali museum; latte with sugar cubes; several train rides where they fail to check my Eurail pass. I spent $300 on a false sense of security.
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In one train carriage, the doors are faulty and open every 30 seconds with a sharp hiss. I kick them hard, and an elderly woman laughs. The doors stay broke.
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When I arrive in Amsterdam my phone is dead and they don't have a charging port. My ex sent me the song "Meet Me in Amsterdam" a few weeks before our dramatic breakup. I'm off my meds and I haven't thought of her in a long time. Some obsessions never leave: sour patch kids and superheroes and microwave doors and volcanoes. When I think of old friends and romances, they feel 2D: a collection of poems I return to when upset. There's always a reason to be upset. The earthquakes and blizzards in Turkey. Phones that don't hold charge. Gas prices. Michaels. But look on the bright side. I'm in Europe!