the belgian bust

Good evening, all. I'm going to begin this entry with a supreme sigh of relief as I will not be going to Belgium this coming weekend. The initial plan was to meet my friend Erinn for her birthday in Bruges, however after realizing that it would require planes, trains, automobiles, and being double-jointed to get there, I decided that it was a no-go.

The truth is that I feel incredibly guilty for canceling and if I could I would grow a tail just so that I could tuck it between my legs, but the reality is that a broken engagement and an impulsive $150 thought are completely worth avoiding the hernia and/or ulcer that potentially await me while switching trains, speaking in Dutch (I sounded like a rogue mallard duck when practicing Dutch phrases earlier) and broken French in a foreign country all by my lonesome. For better or for worse, I know my limits, and I know that a two-day trip to Belgium is not something worthy of grinding my teeth. That would be a season finale of Project Runway. Anyway, the difficult task, more so than the money wasted, will be telling her that I won't be going. I guess this is one of those things that will help build my character or something, though it seems that with my flakey behavior I'm made entirely of phyllo dough and dandruff. There are worse things, though. I guess.

At any rate, this weekend was rather nice. First and foremost, no one was in the flat (I say "flat" when I also decide that I'm not going to end sentences with prepositions in text; they both make me feel a bit fancy and European), and therefore I was able to bite my toenails without closing the bedroom door. Libertad! Kidding. I love Loren and wished that she were here, however you have no clue how much of a vacation it was for me to not be plagued by Marisel's nasaly nuances of her favorite Glee! hits at every hour of the day. No, you dumb bitch. "Don't Stop Believing" isn't by Glee. It's by Journey. I don't even like them that much, either, but will defend them down to their last teased hair follicle out of principle alone. Now please shut the hell up before I throw you and your stickered iPod in the gas burner. That's something to sing about.

You see, Marisel was in Barcelona this weekend celebrating her birthday by most likely singing Glee songs in the Sagrada Familia with some of her twerpish friends. I politely declined the invitation to go, as I already have enough problems with popping my ears on planes. I can't even begin to fathom the possibility of them bleeding on top of that. Let it be known now that if and when I establish my own reich, Glee and flat-feet will be two of the first things to be abolished. (Yes, Marisel has flat feet. Thus the theory continues...)

Anyway, my Friday was a relatively tame one, as the night prior didn't end until approximately 7 am. Another night at the Camborio, another night of shaking my ass most likely off beat to post-mole Enrique Iglesias hits. Saturday, however, was choc-full of excitement. Or at least things that made me wear something other than a dressing robe and a grimace. I started out the day with an impromptu English tutoring session, and to be honest I was incredibly terrified. I had to look up direct object pronouns, independent and subordinate clauses all before meeting up with my tutee (such a funny word!) so I could at least appear academic and knowledgeable. 

I met my tutee, Cristobal, a friendly yet unfortunately overgelled boy from Cordoba, for tapas and tutoring. It turns out that looking up the nuts and bolts of English grammar was far too ambitious, as the only words he could muster (though only with probing) were "hello" (ay-low) and "goodbye" (gude-bai). Things didn't get any better when my tapa, a plate of sausages that looked like midgets' thumbs drowning in some kind of red sauce with mayonnaise, was thrust so lackadaisically at me that some of its projectile found its way onto my white blouse, clinging to the fabric like an attention-starved leech. Eventually, I decided that it was best to begin with pointing to objects and people and have him describe them in Spanish, and I would translate to English, and then have him repeat what I said orally and then write it as well. It was difficult, and I can't necessarily say that the warm-fuzzy feeling that comes with kindness was worth it, as no amount of good vibrations can remove a tomato-sauce based stain from a white shirt. But so it is. Two diet cokes were paid for, and he came out of it knowing about 20 more words and how to use them in a sentence. We'll see if I'm recruited again.

That evening I attended a party at a few Australians' flat. I didn't know them at all, but still managed to be comfortable enough around them to fall out of my chair twice while laughing. Always the epitome of grace. I went with Jeremy (the Belgian who gave Cristobal my name and number for English lessons without consulting me first...thanks!), Gregor, and Hedda, a German girl whom I actually find to be very friendly and virtually spit-free. We listened to music, drank some, and talked until the wee hours of the morning, at which point I excused myself to come home. 

Today was more or less banal, as the most exciting thing I can say that I did beyond putting cheese on a piece of bread was finishing my paper on Islamic monarchies. And doing that was about as exciting as applying Preparation H to a stubborn hemorrhoid. Though, I guess you could say I rewarded myself by backing out of my Belgium trip. Guillaume asked me to go out for a drink, but as I was already immersed in my Bach mix and Belgium-fretting (on top of the fact that I am beginning to feel that my bloodstream is composed of white blood cells, red blood cells, plasma, and malted barley), I postponed until tomorrow under the guise of a stomach bug and generally "funky" demeanor.

This week should be a pretty good one. Tuesday night a group of Turkish girls are hosting a party at a pub wherein they'll be serving Turkish food (I was sold at this point), and will be doing traditional Turkish dancing. Wednesday night a bunch of people are getting together for tapas, and Thursday Hedda is having a terrace party at her place. And my weekend is 100% free. Oh, what a tough life I lead.