Paris. International City of Romance. The City of Lights. The Epicenter of All Things Culinary. Who wouldn’t want to go there on a European vacation?

Us, that’s who.

Even after Paris won the Rock-Paper-Scissors contest, both Sleeping Beauty and I were hesitant about our decision. We’d already booked a flight out of Brussels in two days, so we knew our journey would be ending there one way or another. And Paris just seemed so… well… touristy. The departure board at the train station was tempting, with delicious sounding places like ‘Lillie Flandres’ and Crepy Villers’ on offer.

But in the end, Paris won the toss (or whatever it’s called when you win at Rock-Paper-Scissors) and I’m glad it did. Fiona and I decided when in Paris… we’d be the most touristy tourists ever. Our sightseeing excursion included the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and ended with a wonderful dinner in a quaint Parisian bistro. Instead of a bunch of boring words, here’s a bunch of boring pictures:

Sometimes being a tourist is OK.

The next morning at the train station, we ran into some of Fiona’s long lost relatives.

Though it was still early, this bunch was already heavy into the Guinness. Being the cordial types, they asked if we wanted a few belts to start the day off right, then one of them asked, “Where ya goin?”

“Brussels.”

What the fuck ya goin’ there for? Brussels is fuckin’ borin’! Come to the match with us today instead!”

As enticing as that offer sounded (and for once I am not being sarcastic) we borded our final train for our final so-called boring destination.

Our first impression of Brussels wasn’t that it was boring, our first impression was more along the lines of : ‘Why the hell did we leave Paris to come here?” There’s something mildly alarming about walking out of a train station and the first thing you see is gigantic piles of dogshit all over the sidewalk as litter gently swirls in the wind. The only hotel in the area with a vacancy had rooms for rent by the hour. Just by looking around we could tell that finding crack in this section of Brussels would be easier than finding a safe sanctuary. For the first time on our trip, our plan of having no plan had failed. We were, for lack of a better word, screwed.

It is at this point I would like to share what I call Frenchy’s Five Travel Tips, carefully developed after years of traveling and research:

1) Always go with your gut. If you get a weird feeling about an unfamilair place, leave it. Your gut is always right.

2) Tray and see the adventure in everything, including traversing Crack Alley in search of a hotel room.

3) There is always one hotel room available, you just can’t ever give up looking for it.

4) The key to happiness is low expectations.

5) If you’re right about something contentious, keep it to yourself.

I offer these tips for free.

Dragging our bags from hotel to hotel in a vain attempt to find lodging, we saw something that made it obvious (if it wasn’t already obvious) that it was time to move on. At a stoplight, a car skidded then slammed into the car in front/ Glass shattered, metal crumpled, and then it got ugly. The guy in the front car jumped out of his wrecked Audi, grabbed the other driver and started beating him senseless. Sleeping Beauty, the voice of reason chimed in,”Since we’re flying out tomorrow anyway, let’s get out of here and find a room by the airport, OK?” The police arrived to break up the fight as we escaped to the train station.

Near the airport, our luck changed for the slightly better. We were able to locate the last room available in all of Belgium, at such an exorbitant price that it was almost laughable. At least it had a bidet, and after getting robbed at the front desk, I contemplated using it. For what we paid to stay in this Sheraton, I didn’t even feel a bit guilty about stealing all the towels. Actually, it’s not stealing  if you overpaid for the room, right? Hell, I’d have taken the sheets and curtains too if they’d have fit in my suitcase.

Broke beyond belief, we decided rather than sit in the hotel room drinking tap water and eating stale crackers, we’d take a chance on our last night and brave “boring yet unsettling” Brussels once again. I’m glad we did.

Aside from the heroin shooting galleries we saw earlier, Brussels turned out to be very nice. Wandering around the alleys of ‘Free Town’ we heard a far-off commotion. Car horns blared, and a crowd roared in the distance. Being naturally nosy, we headed in the direction of the clamor. What we found is something that is usually only seen on the news.

Thousands and thousands of cheering, flag waving Algerians had gathered on and around the steps of town hall. More Albanians rode atop cars and vans in the street, cheering and whistling. We weren’t really sure what had happened, but for the time being, the crowd was friendly, so we  hung around. The hair on the back of my neck stood up from the energy of the crowd. It turns out that Algeria had beaten their arch rival Egypt in a football match. I think by football they really mean soccer, but I don’t speak Algerian, so I couldn’t ask. I probably could have asked if the horse was on the table, but it didn’t seem like an approariate question to ask in the middle of a near rioting mob.

We worked our way out of the madness before the Molotov cocktail artists took over, and completely by accident stumbled into the final landmark we’d been searching for. No, not the statue of the peeing kid – we never did find that landmark – we stumbled across the world famous Delirium Tremens Cafe.

The tap system at the bar looked like a science project gone horribly wrong.

On occasion, I’ve sampled a Delirium Tremens Ale or two, and I can say two things about this beer – it’s good, and it’s STRONG! Fiona and I ordered two glasses of Brussel’s finest, and proceeded to toast the Best Trip Ever. While we were toasting, a group of four Chinese kids asked if they could join us at the table. One of the two guys immediately put his head down on the table and passed out. The two girls laughed, and the other guy said something to me in French. I considered busting out my most happening French phrase, but again it seemed inappropriate. Before I had the chance, the guy effortlessly switched to English, saying his friend couldn’t handle the powerful Delirium Tremens Ale. Then things got weird.

He asked, “Where from?”

I replied, “California.”

“I rike California!” Pointing at me, he continued, “Sing a song about California!”

Puzzled, I asked, “You mean… like… umm… Hotel California?” I was starting to feel the Delirium creep up the base of my brain stem.

“No! Sing country song, rike this… We arr rive in a rerrow submarine… a rerrow submarine…”

Fiona, obviously also in the clutches of the powerful Delirium Ale leaned over to me and whispered, “Is he saying Yellow Samurai?”

At that point all I could do was laugh, and laugh I did. From the soccer riot to this strange group, it was truly the best night ever.

And not being one to want the best night ever to end, before we took the train back to the Hotel Mahal, I detoured next door, into a tiny bar that advertised that it only served tequila.

Rule Number Six: This is never a good idea.

I walked up to the bar (I think) and asked for ‘a good tequila.’ Fiona just laughed at me. The bartender asked what I wanted to spend, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out most of our remaining play money. What the hell, if you’re going to go, go big I always say. The bartender poured me a shot of some truly evil looking liquid, and I downed it in one gulp. Shortly thereafter my vision began tunneling, and I entered the wormhole straight to Alice’s Wonderland.

Two days later I came to, and somehow found myself back at home, wondering if the entire trip was all just a dream.