(Catch up on all of the bad decisions we made in Brussels here: part one, part two, part three)
If you’re not already up to speed, let me set the scene; ZoeYak and I are 36 hours into what was meant to be a relaxing, post-breakup, city break in Brussels. Except that we’d already gone to the wrong airport, found out Iceland has an incest problem and realised we’d only booked our Air B’nB for two nights rather than three.
So we had three options; use the last of our euros on an expensive hotel, stay in the Air B’n’B host’s brother’s house as he suggested, (yes, it sounded as murder-y to us as it does to you) or stay out and go straight to the airport at 4am ready for our 7am flight.
We decided to go with option number two; the murder lodge.
So after moving all of our things across to a different Air B’n’B which we were unsure of whether we’d come out of alive, we made it our mission, hangover or no hangover, to soak up the last of Brussels while we still could. So we headed to Grand Place to get cultured to fuck and eat some of the famous Belgian chocolate.
Full disclosure; by “cultured to fuck” I mean we took about 79 photos of the square then based ourselves outside the nearest restaurant with a glass of wine. And thus began what can only be described as an accidental bar crawl through Brussels.
In our defence; we did start out by finding bars close to cultural hubs… but after two hours we set up camp in Brussels’ finest Irish bar. What, two Scousers in an Irish bar – who’d have guessed.
By 8pm we were giddy and craving carbs – so, being truly skilled at this whole travel malarkey, we found a restaurant that served pizza, pasta and had a chef that looked like Belgium’s answer to Stevie G.
A couple of hours later, being cocky bitches after a drink, we’d made friends with most of the staff and were off for an after party at a coffin bar just around the corner.
“The fuck’s a coffin bar?” Good question. It was basically the world’s strangest bar, with coffins for tables and skull heads for glasses. Honestly, it was a good job I was pissed because it would have been creepy as anything sober.
After a few beers, a lesson in French and some drinking games I didn’t understand, (I also have vague recollections of falling off a bike into a pile of other bikes… but the less said about that the better) we realised that it was 3am and we have to leave for our flight at 4.30am. And so our bender in Brussels came to an abrupt end.
Honestly, I don’t remember packing. I barely remember getting to the airport. But the flight… ohhh the flight. The flight was not fun.
So, in summary, here’s what I learned from my 48 hours in Brussels.
- Iceland has an incest problem
- When travelling, it’s probably better to check full details of your airport/accommodation before arriving at your destination. But don’t worry if you don’t – bad decisions make good stories.
- Airports, especially on the back of a 12 hour bender, are truly horrific places to be
- Make friend with locals and they’ll take you to (weird) places you’d never see as a tourist
- The best cure for any break up is always to have a laugh with your best mate. So I’m dedicating this post to the Amy to my Tina, (or Tina to my Amy, we’ve not discussed it, I’m sure she’ll have something to say either way round though) ZoeYak.
Until next time… x