Hello, friends!
        Sorry this has been so long in coming, but I have been quite busy.  Without further ado, I give you:  Belgian Adventures.

I flew to Belgium early Saturday morning at the tail end of February.  The plane landed in Brussels (the capital of Belgium), and I took the train to the city center.  After the usual orientation business (find out where you are, where you want to go, get money to buy a ticket to go there), I gave up trying to figure out their confusing metro system and hoofed it two miles to the hostel I had mad a reservation at.
I didn't have a map of the city, and I got lost—I was near the hostel, but I couldn't find the right street.  So I wandered into the first open business I came across, which took some finding in and of itself (apparently Brussels is closed on Saturday).  It was a small cafe and the proprietor spoke no English; and I spoke no French; and he spoke no Spanish; and I spoke no Arabic.  "Then we are at an impasse, for I can't compete with you physically, and you're no match for my brains."  (I didn't say that; it's just a line I think of when in these situations (yes, those situations when I'm trying to get directions from an Arab who works in a dingy cafe and speaks no English).)  I was able to make clear that I was lost (harder than you might think), and I showed him the address of where I was trying to get to.  He took out a map of the city and showed me where it was, and then we played a little game called, "Giving and Receiving Directions in Pantomime."  It must have vastly amusing to anyone who cared to watch, but eventually he gave up
trying to tell me and drew a little map of the area on a napkin (which I still have).  Then with this visual aid, we played another round of the game but with greater success this time, and I left the cafe and after some twists and turn found my hostel.  (Ironically enough, while I was searching for it and before I had
come upon the very friendly and helpful Arab, I stumbled upon the hostel I had rejected when making reservations in favor of the other one.)
But I made it—only to have the man at the desk tell me he hadn't received my reservation.  Fortunately I had my receipt from the hostel in London through which I had booked a bed.  (You can make reservations for Hostelling International hostels through any other HI hostel in the world.)  He checked the
computer again and this time my name came up, but he had already booked all the dorm beds!  He told me he would work something out, so I waited for a few minutes and after consulting his lodging ledger he asked me if a single room at the same price would be all right.  I told him I would manage.
I bought a map and set out to see the sight of Brussels.  I should tell you now—there are no sights of Brussels.  No, that's not entirely true—there was a neat cathedral, and an impressive historic town square and one or two other things.  (Like a fountain surmounted by a small statue of a boy toddler peeing, for which Brussels is famous for reasons no one knows—weird—there's an add campaign promoting Belgium going on in London right now and the slogan is, "Belgium--it's slightly different."  How apropos.)  Anyway I was in the aforementioned cathedral, looking at some art, when this girl comes over and starts talking to me.  She was around my age, not bad to look at, and seemed nice enough, so when she invited me to grab a snack after the service (yes, I stayed for the afternoon service… in French and Latin) I wasn’t saying no.
We grabbed a snack in a small, expensive cafe, walked around Brussels some more, gave directions to two people who just ran up to me and asked for directions, and then went to Pizza Hut for supper.  This was her idea, not mine, because we happened to be near Pizza Hut when we were hungry.  Of course, we actually weren’t near Pizza Hut; we only thought we were, but hey, we found it after half an hour…  Pizza Hut is more expensive in Belgium; but it was still good, American pizza, of which Europe is almost devoid, and I was really missing some.  Then more walking around the city at night before taking her back to her hotel and—good heavens!  No!  We just said goodnight at the door to the hotel!  Geez.  Then I strolled to the hostel for a good night's sleep in a room all to myself.
The next morning, after a truly strange shower—the actual shower, not the act of showering, was strange—the shower was in a small room containing only the shower, and there was a shower curtain to keep water in.  But it didn't work.  At all.  That is, the shower curtain was about 3 inches from the
floor, and there wasn't any threshold to keep water within the shower itself, so a rather large pond formed in the small room outside the shower, which then flowed under the door to form a slightly smaller pond in the room containing the toilet and sink, which was for everyone on the floor.  Oh, well.  There was absolutely nothing I could do, except not shower, which if you know me, really isn't an option.  So I took my shower, waded back to my room, packed up, and left for Luxembourg.
The train to Luxembourg was interesting—I found out that Americans are not the only ones to heap trash, appliances, furniture, and old cares in big piles on the side of the road or even in their own backyards.  The Belgians are guilty of it as well.  Ha ha!  Other than that, the train ride was really not that exciting, until I got to Luxembourg and started seeing castles everywhere.
Luxembourg is a tiny country a little smaller than Rhode Island.  It has a population of about 350,000 and has 76 castles!  You can't swing a dead cat in Luxembourg without hitting a castle.  It's also expensive and, due to favourable tax laws, is trying to take the banking title from Switzerland.  I took the bus to the only hostel in Luxembourg City (which I will henceforth refer to as Luxembourg, if I henceforth
refer to it; or I might be referring to the country, itself--you'll just have to decide).  On the bus, I met a woman from Magnesite, who is studying in Germany, who is also a Christian—don't get any ideas, Mom, she's also in her early thirties.  We dropped our stuff off at the hostel and headed out to see the sights of Luxembourg.  The city is a lot of fun to walk around in because it is full of narrow, winding, cobblestone
streets, historic buildings, old castles and fortresses, and that Luxembourgese mystique—oh wait, not that last part.
We ate at a nifty and tasty Greek restaurant, walked around some more, had ice cream, grabbed fries at McDonald's, talked about the importance of travelling, and just generally had a good time.  Heading back to the hostel, we got a little lost—it is impossible to get any more than a little lost in Luxembourg—and stopped by a statue for some buffoonery—you'll just have to see the pictures.
After a short night's sleep, we met at breakfast and decided to go see the Casemates—27 kilometers of tunnels beneath the remains of an ancient fortress.  We had lots of fun; those of you who know me can doubtless imagine my joy at being able to explore underground passage ways and "secret" tunnels and stone spiral staircases leading to dungeons deep within the rock—again, you'll have to see the pictures.
Then we walked on through the city to "the most beautiful balcony in Europe," which really did give a spectacular view of the valley (the city is built on top of a mountain pass, which explains why ownership of the country was kicked around to various European empires for centuries before gaining full
independence around the turn of the century).  But I digress, and my train was calling, so it was back to Brussels for me, which, I discovered, was still full of Belgians—more Belgians than you can shake a stick at.
In Brussels, I wanted to do three things: eat at a nifty restaurant mentioned in my guidebook, see the peeing boy (actually called the Mannikin Pis!), and buy chocolate.  Clearly, the last goal was the most important.  Unfortunately, I had to take the metro to achieve these goals before my flight left.  I wasted an hour trying to get from the train station to the restaurant on that incredibly annoying Belgian metro, but eventually I did make it to the restaurant—too late to eat there and too late to see the statue.  (I hope I can survive the severe emotional scarring that I'm certain will result from not seeing a statute of a small boy peeing.)  I did, however, manage to buy chocolate!  I bought it at Leonidas, one of the more expensive chocolatiers in Belgium and with good reason.  The chocolate was exquisite!  I have never had chocolate that good!  Absolutely incredible.  Some of you might be saying, "Hm, that's all well and good for you lot who like chocolate, but I can take chocolate or leave it; and I'm doing just fine, thank you."  I'm here to tell you that your life will never be complete until you have tasted this Olympian nectar, this sweet ambrosia, this food of the gods!  Jim tried some, and you can just ask him about it—and it was two weeks old when he sampled a few pieces.  Even Evan, my roommate, who professed not to care for chocolate, now cannot get enough of the stuff—I'm telling you—it was that good!  You will never believe me until you've tried some for yourself, so what are you waiting for?  Get going!  Now!  Go on!  Stop reading this drivel and find some fine (and authentic) Belgian (or Swiss) chocolate.  Look at you!  Still reading away, as if I never said a thing, as if the secret to eternal happiness hadn't just been handed to you (or at least the secret to a few minutes worth of happiness).  Oh well, no hope for you, I suppose.  I guess we'll just have to carry on with the story.
I bought the chocolate, took the train to the airport, flew back to London, and that was that.  Now go buy some chocolate.

Matt <:{)