With my high heels on and my suitcase in my hand I am trying to catch my buss, although I am still at home. And while I think I am ready to go, I notice my pantyhose: a hole in it. Faster then ever written down in the Guinness book of records am I changing into a new one. And with my mom bringing me to the bus stop by car, I am confident iI’ll be on time. Unfortunately, the bus driver has other concerns then getting me on time in Brussels and he decides to leave one minute earlier then agreed. One minute in good-scheduled Holland is a disaster: it is the same as half an hour in the Mediterranean countries. However, missing my bus does not mean I will not catch it eventually, and therefore my mother decides to track down the bus, cut it off and get me on it. So far, the plan works, if only the side of the road wasn’t that muddy and my heels weren’t so high. I am tripping over and decide to take of my heels, and in the rush I am also taking some grass and mud, which I insist on keeping in my hand, since I have to run for the bus, on my new stockings, and dropping grass/mud will at least mean one second delay in my effort to reach the bus. Luckily there are a lot of people in the bus, so everybody is a witness of the great peace of theatre (and the busdriver is curious regarding the grass I have in my hand when I enter the bus, so as a real lady should, I throw the grass out…).
Transferring from bus to train seems no problem. The only obstacle is on deciding if I want to buy a coffee for some caffeine. The coffee is horrific, that’s what for sure, and it is very expensive. On the other hand, keeping awake so I will be able to do some work, is also a major argument in favor of the expensive tasteless train coffee. Coffee it is.
In the train I am accompanied with only elderly people, apparently they can travel for free today. This means for me, I will have to listen for over more then 4 hours, since I am traveling to Brussels, to sweet grandmothers and grandfathers talking about the resemblance of me to their grandchildren. There go’s my plan on working on some essay’s.
Arriving in Brussels, everything flows fairly normal. The only thing is me almost bumping into a driving car, having to wait for half an hour at the counter, while it normally lasts 5 minutes, and almost missing my good friend, because I am not able to find the correct train station. Where it again go’s major wrong is when I decide to take a bus to the airport where I need to catch my plane to Dublin. Taking a bus to an airport does not mean disaster per se, however: you do need to take the right bus. And even when I am so proud of myself I am able to express myself in my horrible French, it does not occur to me that the strange route the bus driver is taking, might be have something to do with my knowledge of the language. So it happens I am arriving at the airport after two and a half hour, instead of 45 minutes. Right in time to watch my plane take off…
Disappointed am I calling a friend, to stay over. In the train back I am again lucky to have some talkative company: a drunken Brazilian, who happens to speak French, Spanish, Dutch and a little bit of English. Nevertheless, he is forgetting every 5 minutes I am a native Dutch and switches to English, in his horrible accent (same as me talking in French).
When I arrive at the train station I am deadly hungry, I haven’t had a proper meal in 8 hours. Unfortunately, all the normal sandwich shops at Brussels Midi close at 10 o’clock. Since I arrive at ten, they are not willing to sell me any sandwich. But how lucky am I: I spot a fastfood restaurant, (the most horrible one in the world: the Quick) that allows me to buy one of the sandwiches they have left. Since their burgers normally are not eatable, imagine what it must be when they are old: the bread is even more dry, the bacon is tougher and the burger is colder: Yummy!
After a deadly metro-trip and a dozen of phone calls later I arrive at my friends place. We head out for a beer and relax. And to make the circle round, we end up in an Irish pub…
