Sat 18th of October @ Amsterdam-Schiphol-Brussels/South-Charleroi-Brussels/South – Brussels/Center-Brussels/North-STOP!

I’m so enthusiastic I figured it all out – I’m going to my best friend’s wedding. I’ll take the cheapest flight possible – that’s travelling from Amsterdam to Schiphol to Brussels South, to Charleroi and reach final destination – Bucharest. It’s just like some friend of a friend use to tell me about her boyfriend. He flew from Amsterdam to New York with final destination Bucharest, Romania just to get a 1Euro flight. It’s 2 days flying basically, but what a man wouldn’t do for love!! And One Euro!!

So I’m screening the multiple trains and busses I need to catch to get there. I get on tram 1 – then on train 1 and get my ass to the Airport. To Schiphol. I just need to ask myself – what the f_*k am I doing there with no direct connection.. well, if I’m still there, need to do some shopping. Browsing shops, time passing, I just missed a train, well, that’s fine, that means only that I can shop some more! Next train to catch target – half an hour later! I suddenly feel a strange emotion – an awareness which makes me go there 15min earlier. Like the guardian dog to Hell in Greek mythology this lady checks tickets before boarding to Brussels. It seems I have this ticket which is valid to one train – one train that leaves every hour. So I need to wait another 45 minutes?! Are you out of your freakin’ mind?! This is surreal. Brussels South is double!!
I catch this hourly train to Brusse

ls South, I get off and need to take a bus to Charleroi. I’m a bit late. I will be really late and unable to get on my flight if I don’t leave soon to f@*king Charleroi. I just go ask a taxi driver how much for the trip. He says Eur160. Are you out of your mind?! I paid almost 80 for the damn flight!! Well, then 120, my last offer. Shove your offer up your Algerian behind, I say! I’m getting to the damn bus which not only takes one hour, but 1h and 10 min, long enough to make me miss the check in with 2minutes. I alarm some service guys at the desks, one runs after the check in experts, they don’t want to re-open the gates, they’re done with work. There are about 10 other people with the same stupid-me expression on their face. Some Indian Dutch people, who didn’t read the tickets properly, paid huge money to the taxi to get there and see it flying out of their face. Some Romanian I-need-to-talk-to-the-one-in-charge kinda’ guys who’d think the manager gives a damn. They don’t. I start calling my uncle for flight indications and Luciana a.k.a. Lekker Piu for accommodation.

I score accommodation in Brussels North. I try to get on the next bus back. I get the answer we don’t sell tickets, you need to buy 

them in the airport. But I put my luggage in, say I in a despair’s pitiful voice. Well, then hurry up says the fat bastard. But what if you leave?! Well if you don’t hurry up, I will. What kind of a oracle answer is that?! Who talks like this?! I get my luggage down and buy the damn ticket, I’m still in time, but so is the sweaty gorilla to put his foot in the door and contemplating remark with a smile attached – we’re leaving. I guess that’s how it feels when some one is nailing you from behind. The only sense of relief gets to me when I’m on the bus and decide to go see if they have any more flights in the centre. What do you think?! They don’t. Right!

It even seems more hilarious when I’m telling Piu the story and she’s laughing her ass off and we try to make another reservation. Besides noticing the low-value of internet banking, as any machine is good enough for your account, I see I cannot book a damn flight. Luckily I’m saved by goodwill friends ready to call some one in France to make online transactions on the phone. Really trustworthy! The deep magic of the Brussels night continues with the Romanian polenta of expert Juli with a view on the city. We cand only dream at the party ahead. KMG, the funky band in the city is some hope. No offence to them, but I wasn’t expecting much. To my surprise, they go on dancing on tables and keep the hot rhythms loud. Sometimes this is interrupted by some girl bitching about just everything she can pick on. I try to get her some drinks, she refuses, I could almost smack you, bitch!

The crazy crowd is tirish, we move on to salsa shit. In case you haven’t heard about it, I’m no damn salsa girl. But I’m a groupy when it comes to friends. So we really had an amazing night partying, dancing like good old times and gossiping about some Colombian boys getting their hands all over.. Thankfully not all the time on the same ass! We move on to Piu’s house and laugh about the night.