Life, and Other Absurdities.

Our cab driver to our hotel in Brussels was a boisterous man from Marrakesh. 

"You HAVE to go!" He yelled into the rearview mirror, one hand barely grazing the wheel as we careened from one side of the street to the other. 

"It's LOUD, it's SMELLY, there are people EVERYWHERE!" He said with glee. "It's horrible to live there! But you HAVE to see it, you'll never find anywhere else like Marrakesh!" 

Bonne and I promised him that we would- indeed, I'd been envisioning a trip to Morocco ever since reading similar advice in my trusty Rick Steve's guide to Europe. Rick advised to hang your head out the train and howl at the passing desert, and it was an image I felt all too inspired by. 

But for now, we were in Brussels, and determined to make the most of it. After dropping off our bags in a cozy garrett of a hotel room, we headed for the main square for window shopping and dinner. We planned to ask the locals for advice on enticing nightlife, but after beers # 30, 31, 32 and 33 of the trip, the only thing that sounded enticing was bed. 

Four flights of stairs later, Bonne went face first onto the comforter and was out like a log. I planned to follow suit, and was just starting to fall into a delicious snooze when I heard church-bells ringing. 

"How nice," I mused, dozily. "What a perfect lullaby right before sleep."

But after ten minutes, I realized, the bells were not about to stop. Nor did they lull; in fact, as time went on, more and more instruments added into the medley until it sounded as if a symphonic orchestra were playing outside our window in the main square. 

"What the hell?!" I muttered, sitting up and rubbing my eyes blearily. Bonne offered a helpful snore. 

"What IS that?!" I growled, stomping to the window and looking out. From somewhere amidst the rooftops came the awful racket; now, it sounded as if people were actually applauding it. 

"At least that means it's over," I assured myself, crawling back to the bed and throwing the blanket over my head. 

After another few minutes, the noise subsided. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Sleep, delicious sleep! I pulled the blanket back down, turned on my side, and drifted slowly back into dreamland. 

The dream had hardly gotten rolling before a cuckoo clock came floating into its midst. 

"Oh, no," my dream self began to say before the bells started again, and I was jolted awake into a chiming, clanging cacophony. 

"This can't be HAPPENING!" I groaned, not knowing whether to be more disturbed by the fact that this might continue to go on all night, or the fact that Bonne hadn't yet moved a muscle. I was supremely jealous, and becoming increasingly aware of how fast my heart was beating, and how little sleep I'd gotten over the past 48 hours, and how much beer I'd consumed, and how little water.... 

and so mainly what I remember from Brussels is having a three hour long panic attack while horns blared and bells chimed, and Bonne snored happily beside me. When I relayed my story the next day at breakfast, she furrowed her brow. 

"Are you sure you weren't imagining things?" She said. And then she saw my expression and quickly changed the subject. We were off to Amsterdam that afternoon.