When I broke up with my first boyfriend of seven years I healed my war wounds the way any other 20-something would; going out and getting off-my-barnet-bladdered. I’m not knocking it. I had a ball. But this breakup, I decided I was going to handle better – classier, if you will.
So, ZoeYak (amazing journalist, top bird and the person who stops me making at least 90% of the potential bad life choices I conjure up on a daily basis) and I decided to take Sergeant Pepper’s lonely hearts club band overseas and book a last minute city break.
In short; we went on a 48 hour bender in Brussels
Now, I’m going to level with you here; I went to Brussels blind. I’m not proud of this, but my extent of knowledge about the city began and ended at “It’s in Belgium, right?” I didn’t even know what language they spoke. I know, it’s disgusting isn’t it. Fucking English tourists, ruining travel for everyone.
Anyway, to make sure we really milked the cliche of ‘obnoxious Scouse birds on a mad one’ we made sure that, at the airport, we were as intoxicated as we were ignorant.
Three double vodka lemo’s down the road and, truth be told, I don’t really remember boarding the plane. What I do remember is loudly captioning every single Ryan Air safety picture, whilst winking at fellow, unimpressed, passengers. Sorry about us.
Luckily for the rest of the plane, we were stopped in our tracks about 25 minutes before we were due to land with an emergency stop for fuel. Oh yeah, that’s right; on the 60 minute flight from Liverpool to Brussels we had to emergency land because we were out of juice – come on, Ryan Air, what up??
Naturally, by this point we’d made friends with a couple of ‘Valley Boys’ and spent the two hour delay trying to blag our way off the plane for a ciggie and bribing the air hostesses to reopen the bar. Again, if you were on that flight, I’m really sorry about us.
Anyway, karma got us in the neck when we (finally) arrived to find that someone (Zoe) had booked the wrong airport – meaning the 15 minutes train to our accommodation had to be replaced by a very expensive and, dare I say it, a very fucking dodgy looking cab ride.
Somehow we arrived at our Air BnB unscathed. Now, if you’re unfamiliar with the concept of Air BnB’s (I wasn’t, obviously) then it’s basically a website that allows any Tom, Dick or Harry to rent out their spare rooms, flats, beds, even couches to people visiting the city.
“Hang on, isn’t that asking to be murdered?” Good question. I asked the same – multiple times. I’m still asking it, actually. But Zoe assured me that we absolutely, probably wouldn’t die… and seeing as though I’m generally laid back to the point of stupidity, I agreed.
As you’re reading this blog, it’s safe to say I wasn’t staying with Leather Face – actually the host was a gem considering we turned up two hours late and after midnight. He showed us to our digs for the next 3 nights; complete with real samurai swords and an oversized novelty sombrero… you don’t get that sort of photo opportunity at a travel lodge, I’ll tell you that much.
So, with our hangovers already setting in, we hit the hay… but it’s safe to say that wasn’t the end of our ridiculous adventures in Brussels…
Until next time… x