I was a sweating mess—my phone no longer worked (I opted to not sign up for international roaming), I have not spoken French on a continuous basis for years, and I couldn’t take everything in. Six hours ago, I was in JFK, pacing, fidgeting, and making mental plans of what I have to do in case I take the wrong train out of the airport and end up anywhere but the city center of Brussels, where a good friend I met in New York is supposed to pick me up.
I was at the Brussels Airport, on the month of October, around 9AM. The first overseas country I’ve gone to by myself.
I’ve prided myself on being a meticulous planner. Although I don’t get to hour-by-hour breakdowns of a vacation, you can be sure that if I was the one who’s supposed to be on top of things, that I’ll…
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