I Went to Belgium and Didn't Get a Waffle

I guess it was two weeks ago now (wow) when I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself while Le Petit napped. This would be the week when it was school vacation and V was recovering from foot surgery so I spent Monday through Friday from 9 to 7:30 smearing antibiotic ointment on my inflated eye, playing cars, and watching Disney Junior in French. Now I love Disney Junior, and truth be told I really love Le Petit too, but by about Wednesday I was ready to fling myself from the Eiffel Tower if I didn't get to talk to someone capable of full sentences pronto. Luckily I was free as a bird the next week, and I live in Europe now, which means that visiting another country is as easy as taking the bus from Chicago to Detroit. 

"Hey wanna have an adventure with me next week?" I texted Bea.

"Ooh I like the sound of this!" she responded. 

And that's the story of how we decided to go to Brussels during our vacation. 

Our trip was shortened down to just a day due to snow (get it together France) but we managed to be on the bus to Brussels (capital of Europe, did you know that?) by 7:30 on Thursday morning. I know, I'm surprised I made it in time too. 

After a minor setback trying to figure out public transportation at the end of which we decided just to get a cab, we found our way to the hostel, dropped off our bags, and were handed a map. This is the best map in the history of maps. Not only did it include the lovely caption pictured above, but a list of shopping, restaurants, bars, sightseeing, clubs, and parks. It basically planned our trip for us. We wandered around the Grand Place for a bit, had an omelette served by a waiter desperately in love with Bea (actual quote "Be careful with that omelette. My heart's in there"), stopped back at the hostel for a nap, shook out our trusty guide, and tried to make a decision about food and entertainment for the night. I wanted to get moules frites, because that is another thing Belgium is supposedly known for, but we opted instead for a restaurant the map tagged as a "Local tip!" with traditional food. I am so glad we did. I got sausages with some sort of mashed vegetable thing and beer of course. Oh god, so good.

Next we headed to Delirium Village (home of the legendarily delicious, not to mention dangerous, Delirium Tremens), which boasts the largest selection of beers of any bar in the world. This seems like such an awesome thing, except that it makes actually ordering something impossible. After staring at the interminable menu for about 5 minutes I finally shrugged at the bartender and said, "Something good?" He nodded, and handed me something that was, indeed, good. I really love those super strong sour Belgian beers. You'd think they'd have more of them in France, seeing as Belgium is literally freaking RIGHT THERE. But alas, it's mostly Heineken and the like as far as beer selection goes in Paris. The live band was fun, especially the part where the lead singer read the lyrics to Beatles songs off of his music sheet in front of him. Seriously, who doesn't know the words to "Come Together"?

After that we went to a club called Madame Moustache, with free entry, but you had to pay to use the bathroom. Scam. Total scam. I sprung for all night bathroom privileges which cost a euro. One time use was 50 centimes. Scam, I tell you. Despite that bullshit, this was probably the most fun I've ever had in an establishment where dancing is expected. That's probably because instead of the same monotonous House music or some Jason Derulo/Rihanna/Drake pop nightmare, this DJ played 30's, 40's, and 50's music remixed with a hip hop beat. You guys I danced to Jailhouse Rock at a club in Brussels. Game over. Best night out ever. 

We left the next day in the afternoon. No, I didn't get a waffle, but I did get frites (they're fries) which were delicious. I also brought home a single Trappist Rochefort beer, which is sitting in my fridge. I'm saving it for the solo Brussels-throwback Elvis party I plan on throwing sometime in the future.

A Parisian Pity Party

The other night, before I went to bed, my eye felt bruised. That's weird. Like I got punched in the eyeball. Did I run into something and forget about it? Wouldn't be unheard of. So, being me, I went to bed and forgot about it. The next morning I woke up and my whole eyelid had swollen. Great.

I assumed that I had just gotten Le Petit's eye infection. I seem to have a special propensity for disgusting ailments. Remind me to tell you about the time I got a fungal infection in my ear on a family vacation one year. That's right, fungus in my ear.

So I dropped by the pharmacy for some eye drops or cream or something to de-deform me, and got to practice my French. I think it helped that I had something big and puffy to point to for emphasis. 

But though I used the eye drops exactly as directed, when I woke up the next morning the eyelid in question had doubled in size and raised me red, painful, and leaky. Dear V called her doctor to get me a script for something (on her way to the hospital for her surgery by the way), which turned out to be antibiotic eye drops. Well these eye drops didn't turn out to be any more effective than the original eye drops, and my eyelid was still inflated with God only knows what, and so heavy it started to drag the entire right side of my face down. Blinking hurt.

That night V called to ask how Tom was doing, and then asked if my eye was any better. It should be much better, she said. Having decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life looking like I'd been socked in the face, I was choking back frustrated tears when I told her it wasn't any better. 

"Come over," she said. "I'm calling the doctor."

I went over to her apartment where her sister and niece were helping her recover from her foot surgery, grabbed a seat, and waited for the doctor to come over. Apparently here in the City that Goes to Bed Promptly at Ten, you can get a doctor to make a house call at 10:30. He forced the eyelid up and pointed his evil little flashlight at me. V's sister gasped slightly at whatever it was they saw up there. 

"It's a stye," V translated. I got a new script for an antibiotic ointment, which I smear on my eyelid three times a day. 

And when I woke up this morning, while still swollen, my eye doesn't hurt anymore. And unless it's just wishful thinking, I think it looks a little smaller. Maybe I'll go out tonight after all. Although I don't expect anyone to ask for my number. 

Because I'm always looking for silver linings and learning opportunities, here is a disgusting eye infection French lesson for the day:

1. swollen: gonflé

2. eyelid: paupière

3. stye: orgelet