6/13/15
Paris, France → Brussels, Belgium

Finally, for the first time since we had arrived in Paris, we were both able to sleep in until 10:00 a.m. Not getting to sleep till 5:15 a.m. that morning probably assisted in this feat, but it felt great, either way. We headed out hastily so Ash could shop at Zara. Apparently, Zara was a trendy Spanish store that had locations in the United States, but it sold wares in our price range. The majority of the stores in Paris, however, were for people not on a budget.

We strolled around Bastille in search of crepes and dresses. Not my ideal morning, but I knew Ash would hold it against me forever if she didn’t get to shop in Paris. We walked into a swanky boutique, and I followed in the rough wake of the speedboat-to-spend in front of me. When girls are in their shopping zones, it is almost robotic how their minds and hands work together to sift through rack after rack, only needing a millisecond to analyze and decide what will and will not make the cut. Whether it’s not cute enough, too expensive, made from uncomfortable fabric, or too similar to something she already owns, hundreds of items get passed over before the all-too-familiar pause and stare. This is where the man’s heart starts racing. She has a live one, we think as we immediately begin our own analysis of the item. How bad is this going to hurt? Is it too early in the outing that she will want to continue after this, or could this be our last stop? Then my mind begins to wander off on its own: What are we eating for lunch? Is game five of the NBA finals tonight? Did I put deodorant on today?

The black top has passed all the preliminary tests, and therefore, we begin the duel.

“What about this one?” she asks.

My answer is carefully based on the results of my previous analysis. If it is not too expensive and could wrap up the day, I’d say: “Yeah, that looks great.” In this case, it was our first shop, and the sixty-five-dollar top was made with the same amount of fabric as my boxers. “Yeah, that looks great. Do you love it?” I responded, carefully complimenting her on her choice but sending the decision back to her court.

Ash is very indecisive when it comes to clothes, and sure enough, she replied, “Ehhh, I don’t know,” and kept moving. I took some fire for this, but left unscathed and lived to see another rack. I passed a fellow boyfriend between aisles and gave him the I’m in the same sinking boat as you—stay strong nod. We were comrades in a losing war—this was essential for morale.

After a few hours of following Ash around to other shops, we grabbed espresso and a few croissants and took them to our rooftop porch for one last meal.

I think this rooftop is what I will remember most about Paris. The Eiffel Tower is amazing, the streets and shops are spectacular, but everyone has those memories. The rooftop porch was our memory, and the small space symbolized us conquering our fear of traveling together. We enjoyed our last romantic picnic on the roof, feeding each other baguettes, our legs tangled to avoid the fall below.

Our ride to Brussels was coming at 4:00 p.m. We were riding with a guy named Jerome through an app called BlaBlaCar.

BlaBlaCar is a ride-sharing app that is a mix between Airbnb and Uber, but it’s much cheaper than Uber and specifically for longer jaunts, oftentimes between countries. We searched the website for trips between Paris and Brussels on June 13 and scanned the list of drivers making the trip to find a departure time and price we liked. It was sixty dollars for Ash and me to ride with Jerome the three and a half hours to Brussels, as opposed to the 240 dollars it would cost us by train. The only catch being that we were essentially hitchhiking with a stranger who could kill us. On the off chance he didn’t kill us, that extra 180 dollars would be put to great beer-drinking use in Belgium.

At four on the dot, we were outside looking for the Audi A4 Jerome was driving.

Thirty minutes later we were worried we had messed up our inaugural BlaBlaCar trip, because we had still not seen him. He approached apologetically around four forty-five, greeting us by doing the traditional two-cheek kiss with Ash and then shaking my hand. Not that I was against the two-cheek kiss, but Jerome had studied abroad in New York City and knew our customs.

We zoomed out of Paris, and one thing crossed my mind as I reflected on the first of many cities we would be exploring over the next four months: How does everyone here not die of lung cancer in their forties? The term chain-smoking does not do it justice. These people were breathing two parts oxygen, one part nicotine.

I sat in the small backseat of the Audi and noticed the highway etiquette in Europe was superior to that in the US. Everyone drove in the right lane until they wanted to pass. When they reached a car traveling at a slower speed, they simply passed, quickly moving back into the right lane afterward. There were no slow cars coasting in the left lane, and it made for efficient highway driving. In the US, you often have to pass someone on the right as they drink their Starbucks latte and text their friend while steering with one knee in the fast lane.

Jerome graciously dropped us off at the doorstep of our Airbnb in Brussels. He double-kissed Ash again, shook my hand once, and headed off with a “Ciao!” We had survived our first BlaBlaCar experience, and although I was soaked in sweat and some grown man had kissed my girlfriend multiple times, we’d managed to save 180 dollars.

We chose an Airbnb in Ixelles. This neighborhood had a young population with great nightlife and was surrounded by residential buildings, bohemian restaurants, and Gothic churches. Our place was only fifty-seven dollars a night, leaving us with ninety-three dollars a day for food and beer. Alizee, our next host, had left a key with a neighbor, as she could not meet us in person. We grabbed the key, climbed the four flights of stairs (beats six), and headed to our home for the next few days.

Well, this place has character, I thought as we dropped our packs and looked around. Right away we both noticed the mannequin pieces. There were heads, torsos, and legs scattered all over the floor and tables. It looked like the mannequins were having a board meeting to discuss Q4, and a grenade went off and blew the body parts all over the place.

Eager to explore Brussels, we left to grab dinner and escape the staring mannequins. It had been an ongoing joke between Ash and me for years that I have a thing for mannequins. I constantly whistle at them as we pass by stores, so this made it that much worse that we were sharing a room with seven and a half of them—lots of competition for Ash tonight.

We walked down our street in the chilly evening and turned a corner to a mini city center. We saw packed restaurants with outdoor seating and cool sculptures that led to a small museum in the middle of the square. Every restaurant seemed to be full of happy people chatting and laughing. We entered a bar called De Haus that Jerome had recommended.

We each ordered a Belgian-style beer. They were only four euros apiece, but both contained 8.5 percent alcohol—twice that of most beers back home. They arrived at our table, Ash’s served in a large goblet and mine in a test-tube-like glass held by a wooden contraption. It needed the wood because the bottom of the test tube glass was rounded and wouldn’t stand up on its own.

We enjoyed three more because we were finally in the land of beer. I think it was the best beer I’ve ever had. “Back to the plastic brothel,” we joked when we were ready to go home.