The Basics: The kingdom of Belgium is a smallish country south of the Netherlands, north of France, and west of Germany. The people speak Dutch, French, and German.
Go have a waffle. Immediately. Do not stop at go. Don’t stop to use the bathroom. Run!
“Maybe he’ll stay in Berlin,” Leela says as we streak through the countryside on the train. “He’ll decide it’s his favorite city, that he loves Volkswagens and sauerkraut too much to ever go home. And then I’ll never have to see him again.”
“Anything is possible,” I say. “I’ve never had sauerkraut.”
“Did I totally mess up your itinerary?”
“Well . . . not really. We’re off by two days. We can still take the overnight train to Berlin from Paris.”
“No way,” she says. “I don’t want to go to Berlin anymore. At all. What if they’re still there? Forget it.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to get annoyed. “So no Berlin. And then probably no Prague since it’s close to Berlin and kind of out of the way otherwise. Maybe we could go to Barcelona? What do you think about Barcelona?”
“I like the sound of Barcelona,” she says. “And we speak some Spanish. Remember Señora Poncé and that days of the week song?” she asks, before breaking into song. “Los días de la semana son . . .”
“Siete, siete,” I finish. “I do. Except they mostly speak Catalán in Barcelona. But still. Paris and then Barcelona. Perfect.”
“Great.” She heaves a sigh of relief. “But I am sorry I messed up the plan. I’m the pathetic girl who follows her boyfriend from place to place and messes up her life. I’m a stalker.”
I stretch my legs out in front of me, thinking about my conversation with Jackson last night. “You’re not a stalker. He was your first love. You wanted to believe in him.”
“But is he not the worst boyfriend ever? He doesn’t take anything seriously! He vomited on me! He hooked up with a stripper in front of me! He volunteered for it! Even Jackson didn’t raise his hand!”
I could not imagine Jackson ever raising his hand for something like that. He would never be such a try-hard.
“Tell me more about what Matt said last night,” I say. “He wanted to travel with Jackson?”
“Yeah. He said maybe we could meet up at the end of the trip. But he also said he thought we should be able to hook up with other people.”
“What? Together? Like an orgy?”
She looks horrified. “No! You’ve spent too much time in Amsterdam. He thought we should go our separate ways after Amsterdam, and that if something happened, no big deal, we’d get back together later.”
“He wanted to have an open relationship?”
“Is that what it’s called?”
“I think so,” I say.
“Then yes. He wants to sleep with other girls and then sleep with me again. You know, pick up HPV and gonorrhea and then pass it over to me. How nasty is that?”
“Pretty nasty,” I agree.
“He wants to be open to experiences.” She puts experiences in air quotes. “He doesn’t want to have any regrets.” Regrets goes in air quotes, too. “I blame Jackson.”
I flush. “Seriously?”
“Yes! Seriously! Jackson has probably slept with ten girls since . . .” Her jaw drops. “You didn’t sleep with him last night, right? You barely told me about your night! First I force you to go out with him and then I ruin your night. I really am the worst.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“But what happened?”
“Nothing,” I say. My cheeks heat up.
She laughs. “Liar.”
“Fine. Yes. But not much. We kissed a little.”
“You did? Shut up! Is he as good a kisser as everyone says?”
“He is a pretty good kisser,” I admit.
“Practice makes perfect, I suppose,” she says. “I hope you don’t have gonorrhea.”
“You can’t get gonorrhea from kissing!”
“I know. I’m kidding.”
I can still feel the kiss. It was a good kiss. A really good kiss.
She leans closer to me. “So do you think you would have slept with him if I hadn’t freaked out and ruined your hot night?”
I think about his hands. “I definitely think we were heading in that direction.”
“Then it’s probably a good thing I stopped it. You don’t want to be just another notch in his belt, do you?”
I roll my eyes. “Did you really just use the expression ‘notch in belt’?”
“I totally did.”
“What does that even mean? Why would anyone make a notch in someone’s belt?”
“In cowboy days they used to make a notch in your belt if you killed someone,” she says.
“Why do you even know that?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“What about my belt? He would have made a nice notch in that. I only have two notches. And they aren’t even good notches. I’m not absolutely sure the Adam notch counts since it didn’t go all the way in.” I sigh. “I definitely wanted to sleep with Jackson last night.”
I can’t stop thinking about him. I can still feel his lips. I’m sure in a few days that won’t be the case. A feeling is like a bruise. After a day or two it’ll be gone.
“And anyway,” I say, “yesterday you were throwing me at him. Today you think I’m lucky I escaped?”
“I’ve come to my senses. Not that it matters now.” She yawns. “I barely slept at all last night.”
“I heard you tossing,” I say. I don’t mention that the dark circles under her eyes are a giveaway.
“Did you find a hostel for tonight?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I say, looking back at my Travel Europe. “The two places they list are already booked. Since it’s kind of last minute.”
She shrugs. “We’ll find something.”
“And by we, you mean me.”
“I can do it,” she says, taking her phone out of her blue bag. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay, great. Can you look up Huiswaarts?”
She stares at her phone vacantly. “Hise warts?”
“No. H-U-I-S-W . . .”
She blinks repeatedly.
“Never mind,” I say. “I got it. I have Wi-Fi here anyway. Why don’t you take a nap?”
“I look like crap, huh?”
“A nap would be good for you,” I say. “I’ll find us something. Don’t worry.”
We get off the train at eleven. I hike my backpack onto my back, and Leela drags her duffel behind her.
“There’s a hostel we can walk to from here,” I say. “It’s in the town. I got us two beds in the dorm.”
“You’re the best.”
“At least we’ll save some money.”
“Okay. That’s good. I’ve spent way too much cash on sex shows in the last few days.”
I laugh. “That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d hear you say.”
“Me neither.”
Our hostel looks like a giant dorm.
After checking in, we climb the staircase and use our key cards to enter.
There are five bunk beds. Four of them look like they’re in use.
Leela drops her bag. “What now? Nap?”
“You just napped! It’s time to go out.”
“And do what?”
“Explore. We’re in Bruges, the most fun city in Belgium! Come on,” I say, my voice extra bouncy. “You need to cheer up.”
“But I feel like shit.” She ties her hair back in a ponytail.
“I know. You just broke up with your boyfriend. But! Are you ready for the but? It’s a pretty good but.”
“What’s the but?”
“The but is that we’re in the land of chocolate. Belgian chocolate! That’s like the best kind of chocolate! You just broke up with your boyfriend, and we’re in the land of chocolate! Come on. Put your shoes back on and let’s go get some.”
Bruges reminds me of Amsterdam with its canals, but the houses and architecture are a lot more medieval. The roads are cobblestoned and all the houses and buildings have excessively pointy roofs and are a golden color. But we’re quickly sidetracked from enjoying the scenery by a waffle stand.
“That,” Leela says, pointing. “I want that.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
There’s not even a line.
We order one waffle each with ice cream and strawberries and something called pearl sugar.
We sit down beside a green-bronzish statue of a Flemish painter named Jan van Eyck.
I lift my plastic fork and dig in.
“Omigod.” I swoon. “This is it. This is what I’ve been searching for my whole life.” Pearl sugar is like chunks of melty sweetness.
“Do waffles always taste like this?” Leela asks, talking with her mouth full. “I should be ordering these every day. Why am I not ordering these every day? For breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”
“I don’t think they taste like this in Maryland. Maybe in Montreal, but definitely not in Maryland. Clearly I should marry a Belgian, bring him to America, and start a waffle shop with him.” I savor the last bite. “I think I want another one.”
“Me, too,” she says.
We order another one. This time we mix it up with jam and Chantilly cream. Mmm.
A family with small Belgian children passes us. They’re super cute and wearing brightly patterned outfits and holding hands. I look for a single Belgian man I could marry and import. We’d be very happy with our waffles and adorably patterned children.
“A third?” I ask when we’re done.
“Don’t be crazy,” she says.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But can we come back for dinner?”
“Yes,” she says. “Where to now?”
“Um . . .” I flip through the book. “I don’t know what you want to do. Why don’t you have a look and choose something?”
“Can we just walk around?” she asks, ignoring the book.
It’s starting to seem like she’s never going to look at this book. I’m going to have to organize and plan the entire trip.
Isn’t this why her parents wanted her to travel in the first place? So she could learn to do stuff on her own? How did she survive the year at college? Did her sister and Matt do everything for her? How will she become more independent if I do everything for her? Should I say something?
Maybe today isn’t the day for that.
I take a deep breath instead. I feel the sun on my face. It’s warm, but not too hot. Like the perfect waffle. I inhale the sweet smell of sugar.
“Okay,” I say, and stand up. Oh wow, I’m full. “Let’s go that way. I’m going to need to pee really soon.”
We pass by a beer shop and a chocolatier and a touristy store.
“Let me get a snow globe,” I say. I think about Jackson. He helped me pick the last two. But no more. Now I’ll have to rely on Leela.
“This one?” I ask, pointing to one with some sort of bell tower in it. It says Belfort of Bruges on it.
“This one’s cuter,” she says, picking up one that’s three times the size and has little buildings in it.
“They need to be small,” I say, and buy the first one.
We keep walking until we end up in what my book says is the Markt, a pedestrian-only square. In the center is another green-bronzish statue of two guys. Around us are flags, as well as restaurants and stores, and the actual Belfort of Bruges. It’s a tall medieval tower overlooking everything.
“Want to take a picture of me in front of the Belfort while holding the Belfort?” I ask. “It’ll be very meta.”
“If you want,” she says.
I hand her my phone and smile. “Waffle!” I say.
Three cute guys walk by us. They look like college students. I try to listen to hear where they’re from. Two are wearing sleeveless shirts that show off their nicely sculpted arm muscles.
I recognize the language from Hebrew class.
“Israelis,” I say, motioning with my chin. “You like Israelis. Let’s follow them! Let’s have an adventure!”
She shrugs. “I’m still pretty tired. Can we go back to the hostel?”
The taller one is looking at us. “Are you sure?” I ask. “We’re being ogled.”
“I’m not in the mood to be ogled.”
“Even by a super-hot Israeli?”
“Even by.”
Wet blanket. I feel bad as soon as I think it. She just broke up with a guy she loves. She’s sad. But still . . .
“Want to take a horse-drawn carriage home?” I ask, pointing to one.
“No.”
I sling my arm through hers. “Okay,” I say. I give up. “Let’s go back. Oh! Oh!”
“What?”
“I know just what will cheer you up!”
She raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“A waffle!”
She laughs. “I think you’re right.”
We eat one more waffle and call it a day.
Back in the hostel, there’s a beer tasting at the bar.
“Want to go?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
Okay, then. We return to our room and get ready for bed.
“I’m not really feeling Bruges,” she says, stretching out on her bed.
“Why?” I ask as I climb up my ladder. “It’s beautiful. It’s the land of waffles and chocolate. And we haven’t even tried the french fries yet.”
“I don’t know. It’s depressing.”
“How could this possibly be depressing?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” she says. “We don’t know anyone here. We could get killed and no one would have any idea. We’re in this town that time forgot in a dirty hostel that hasn’t been cleaned in months. And I’ve been wearing the same T-shirt for three days.”
“Yeah. We should get on that,” I say. “We should try to find a laundromat tomorrow. Also, the Israelis. They could be staying at this hostel.”
“No. I’m too tired to make conversation with strange men.”
“They probably don’t speak English. You won’t have to make conversation. You can just smooch them.”
“Not interested,” she says. The bed creaks as she tries to get comfortable.
If she’s going to want to just lie around for the next three and a half weeks, I’m going to start getting really upset. I didn’t come all this way and abandon my family for that. I sigh. “What exactly do you want to do, then? We have to do something. And it better be fun.” I can hear the irritation creeping into my voice.
“Eat stinky cheese and macarons,” she says.
My heart lifts. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah. I think it’s time for Paris.”