The Rest of Belgium
There is truly nothing to report about the rest of my stay in Belgium. J. left early on Sunday morning, to catch a flight that would hopefully get her back to the US in time for the World Cup final. I strolled along the Grote Markt, picking up some English language newspapers and catching up on my news over coffee. After a while, I returned to the hotel to catch up on work, which is what I did for the rest of the day, until it was time to find a place to watch the final game. I must say, even though soccer (football!) is something I don’t pay all that much attention to, the World Cup has been fabulous fun and I have every intention of cheering Spain on to the bitter end.
And a bitter end it was, as we all sat around the bar with our fingers crossed and our breath baited. I don’t think anyone anticipated the unscored game, the double overtime. I was lucky enough to find a bar with a lot of other fellow Spain fans, all of us biting our nails and jumping up when we thought things were going well. The service was poor, the food mediocre, and the company, well, let’s just say it wasn’t anything worth writing home about. But at the end, none of it mattered, because Spain won! And while I would have slept well that night despite the outcome, it was very fun to know that my temporary home was basking in the world’s spotlight!
The square that night was teeming with people, as were the streets. Horns honked through the night and the celebration was intoxicating. I walked around for a bit to share in the victory, but soon enough had to head back for my early train to the airport. I should have just stayed out. Turns out my airport was much further away than I realized and the combination of poor planning and transportation delays led me to miss my flight. So instead of sitting on the beach in Spain, celebrating with my neighbors and watching the congratulatory parade, I was stuck in an airport hotel somewhere in Wallonia.
The hotel was non-descript and not worth mentioning, other than if you ever get stuck at the Charleroi Airport, don’t stay there. The air conditioning in my room didn’t work, the book I picked up from the airport could have been written by a monkey, and the food was, well, indescribable. I’m not sure what I was fed, but it seemed safer to eat it than to complain. My flight left early the next morning, thank goodness, by the 17 hours I spent there were more than enough to convince me never to go back.
After a rocky start getting through the check-in line and again through security (similar in almost every way to the Barcelona experience), I was finally on my way back home to Spain. At least this time, the crying children were babies and therefore couldn’t be held accountable for their irritability. But I practically leapt for joy when the plane landed in Spain. I was one Starbucks (of course I stopped), one taxi ride, and a 90 minute bus ride away from my apartment and then I was home.
I think I’ll stay here for a while now.
And a bitter end it was, as we all sat around the bar with our fingers crossed and our breath baited. I don’t think anyone anticipated the unscored game, the double overtime. I was lucky enough to find a bar with a lot of other fellow Spain fans, all of us biting our nails and jumping up when we thought things were going well. The service was poor, the food mediocre, and the company, well, let’s just say it wasn’t anything worth writing home about. But at the end, none of it mattered, because Spain won! And while I would have slept well that night despite the outcome, it was very fun to know that my temporary home was basking in the world’s spotlight!
The square that night was teeming with people, as were the streets. Horns honked through the night and the celebration was intoxicating. I walked around for a bit to share in the victory, but soon enough had to head back for my early train to the airport. I should have just stayed out. Turns out my airport was much further away than I realized and the combination of poor planning and transportation delays led me to miss my flight. So instead of sitting on the beach in Spain, celebrating with my neighbors and watching the congratulatory parade, I was stuck in an airport hotel somewhere in Wallonia.
The hotel was non-descript and not worth mentioning, other than if you ever get stuck at the Charleroi Airport, don’t stay there. The air conditioning in my room didn’t work, the book I picked up from the airport could have been written by a monkey, and the food was, well, indescribable. I’m not sure what I was fed, but it seemed safer to eat it than to complain. My flight left early the next morning, thank goodness, by the 17 hours I spent there were more than enough to convince me never to go back.
After a rocky start getting through the check-in line and again through security (similar in almost every way to the Barcelona experience), I was finally on my way back home to Spain. At least this time, the crying children were babies and therefore couldn’t be held accountable for their irritability. But I practically leapt for joy when the plane landed in Spain. I was one Starbucks (of course I stopped), one taxi ride, and a 90 minute bus ride away from my apartment and then I was home.
I think I’ll stay here for a while now.
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