So here’s the thing.

I really miss Cyprus.

How do I put this? Going from America to the Mediterranean is like eating McDonald’s vanilla soft serve all your life — then one day you are introduced to Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked, and you’re like, holyshitwhyhaveInevertouchedthisgoodnessbefore?!?!??!

But soon you become very, very jaded, and you start forgetting that it’s not every day you get to have chocolate AND vanilla AND fudge brownie AND cookie dough at once in one glorious pint-sized package. Soon traipsing around foreign countries becomes second nature, and you stop doing socially unforgivable fist-pumps every time you realize that hey, you are in Israel floating in the Dead Sea or riding camels named Mickey Mouse with the Great Pyramids as your backdrop or whatever.

You stop thanking Sweet Jesus every day that not only are you surrounded by possibly your favorite people in the world, but you basically eat, sleep, and play with them 24 hours of your life, seven days a week.

You stop wondering how you got so damn lucky that despite having friends who come from entirely different cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds — so much so that we should be hired for every one of those diversity posters of people cheesing lamely on an overly green patch of grass — we click disgustingly well.

You don’t appreciate nearly enough that you’re sort of going to class and sort of just living life the way everybody in the world should: contentedly.

‘Cause in those in-between moments — as the subway lurches to a stop, as the elevators doors come to a close, when I’m caught slightly off-guard and my mind is momentarily unoccupied — that’s when the tiniest of memories slip in: the cigarette smell that permeated the island and our sun-damaged, malnourished locks, the drizzle in our usually non-functional bathroom that impersonated a shower stream… They’re little things I never thought I’d ever even care to remember, and suddenly I find myself aching for them like the bad habits of a long-lost love.

Yeah, I miss leaving the house with two euros each, shamelessly eating stranger’s sandwiches, dancing into the Ayia Napa sunrise, and possibly hitchhiking home (if that’s what it took that particular night…) I miss 4 a.m. baklava runs and weekly self-pedicures with the roomies. At the end of the day, though, it’s not anything in particular I feel lost without — not the turtle’s pace of the island that I miss or the lady at Gyromania who knew to split our gyro in two. It’s not just that I feel like I left about nine best friends scattered across the states.

It’s the chocolate, the vanilla, the fudge brownie and the cookie dough. It’s that combination of a little bit of everything that I’ll never be able to have again. Because hey, I might reunite with my girlfriends on occasion. Might, at some point in the next couple of years, find an excuse to temporarily resume the globetrotting lifestyle. True to style, in all likelihood I will continue to eat my way around the world and down the cheapest bottle on the menu in various locales. One day, I might just see the little island I called home up until just a month ago — but it will never be quite the same as it was for four magical months in the spring of 2009.

Vanilla has never tasted so bittersweet.

My first week of work was exhausting (you try transitioning from being a useless vegetable on a Mediterranean island for four months to working 45 hours a week). I realized I never mentioned where I’m working — I’m at Lemondrop.com, AOL’s women’s lifestyle site and VaynerMedia, a brand consulting agency. Both teams I work with are awesome, and I’m not just saying that because this is my Very Public Blog That Anyone Can Read.

Speaking of which, I had a rude awakening this morning upon having my MOTHER email me about my apparent bar-frequenting habit, and what appears to be my poor decision-making and plummeting maturity level. I thought we had a deal, blog readers. My mom doesn’t read my blog, and that’s because she doesn’t want nor does she need to know the intimate details of my life, so WHY all the Chinese aunties in the world feel the need to report back to her is beyond me. Plus, I thought it was obvious that I highly exaggerate my social life to make myself appear cooler to the internet. Should I put a disclaimer on every post?*

The real point of this post was to describe my Ghettofabulous NYC Life, which is aptly named because it is equal parts Ghetto and Fabulous, if that wasn’t readily apparent. As my friend wrote on my wall, “I can’t wait until we make a sitcom out of your life.” And sitcom it deserves to be: After my first full work week, I was ready to enjoy my Friday night to the fullest, which I did. Awesomely. If I weren’t myself I’d probably be jealous of how much fun I managed to have with nothing but a super divey dive and a live band.

Then, predictably, I experienced a ridiculous turn of events: I got locked out of the apartment, befriended everyone in the neighborhood watering hole until that closed, and then called all contacts in the tristate area to no avail (alright, I only called people below 14th street — I’m an East Village elitest). My next brilliant, unimpaired decision was to join some randoms for pizza at their apartment out of desperation and fear of homelessness at 5 in the morning despite the realization that this is how people are probably raped and quartered in the city. I proceeded to play damsel-in-distress until I was offered a place of sweet and joyous slumber. Upon awakening, I tried to abscond with my very comfortable borrowed t-shirt before getting caught sneaking out — at which point I sheepishly thanked my hosts and booked it, quite unfortunately, sans t-shirt.

I think when Ron Burgundy said, “You stay classy, San Diego,” he was directing that comment straight at me and my outrageous classiness.

Of course, when I finally made it into the apartment, our living room was experiencing minor flooding via a crack in the ceiling, thanks to yesterday’s torrential downpour. With our luck, said crack happened to be located right above the ceiling fan, which functioned just as a spray bottle fan would, wetting the entirety of our very small living room.

What can I say? Just daily life in the Shoebox.

Life goes on, though, drenched living room or not, so I got dressed for brunch and shopping with an assortment of lovely ladies: Lena, Nan, and Evelina.

Nothing quite like comparing heartbreak over OJ and brioche.

We hit up some boutiques and consignment stores before another episode of torrential downpour began. With my luck, I’d forgotten my umbrella — so the purple cotton dress pictured above clung to me obscenely all nine blocks home in the way dresses cling obscenely to shapely female bodies in really romantic movie scenes. Except my body has seen better days and there was zero romance involved — rather, pity from umbrella-wielding passerby and a handful of lewd comments.

My dress is now attempting to dry alongside the repeatedly washed bathmat that Berlin has been using as a urinal of sorts. Both (dress and bathmat, not bathmat and dog) shall remain on our fire escape until further notice, until A) it rains, or B) a hobo, not unlike the one who asked me for $2 after he helped me move our new-sofa-that-we-stole-off-the-street upstairs, will likely steal and pawn off for cash.

Ghettofabulous indeed.

I also went and purchased several new pairs of underwear today since Miss High and Righteous Capital of Germany herself has taken to chewing up all my lacy underthings.

But how can you be angry at this face?

*This post is probably highly exaggerated, except the parts that aren’t.

Nights out with your girlfriends at the frattiest bar known to man…

Training the little ones in the art of debauchery…

Spinach artichoke dip (thanks to Jen!) at Teany, my favorite Lower East Side cafe…

Lazy Sunday afternoon chai tea lattes…

What’s not to love?

My internet sista from anotha mista has arrived in Manhattan.

Meet Annie: blogger, UCSD Communication major, and internet fiend. We are basically the same person except I have a bigger appetite and she has bigger hair. Typical conversation topics include: the interwebz.

I will admit that individually, Annie and I are both bad. The number of Firefox tabs I have open at any given time puts even the most unproductive intern to shame. But together, we feed off the other’s internet addiction to an unhealthy degree: We will sit in the same room without conversing for extended periods of time, and our propensity for tweeting/taking pictures of everything we eat/do in public reaches an obscene level. My roommate walked by my room earlier (in which the two of us were cradling our respective laptops) and said, “You guys are nerds.”

Like there was ever any doubt. I’m not really that ashamed.

On Saturday, we ventured out despite the drizzle for dinner at Yuca Bar, which is around the corner from my apartment that is better (and affectionately) known as The Shoebox. I had a vegetarian arepa to die for, people. I can’t even write a Yelp review because I’m afraid of my inability to capture the intensity of that deliciousness in words. Tuesday tapas are half-off from 5-8 p.m. I will be there, and you probably should be too.

Later that night we cabbed it to swanky new lounge in Chelsea, courtesy of my roommates. It was the kind of place so exclusive it hurts and where taking pictures would raise many a meticulously tweezed eyebrow, so you know, I held back. Any place that serves truffle mushroom flatbread and keeps the bottles coming is more than OK in my book.

Minus this week’s worth of bizarre summer rain, New York City has been the same: requests for very specific quantities of change from homeless bums, poor decisions to eat like said homeless bums one meal then to drop bills like I’m P. Diddy the next, and insane, only-in-this-city episodes that have me scratching my head like… wait, DID THAT REALLY JUST HAPPEN?

Yup… that definitely just happened. Combine the imagined sketchiness of New York with the sketchiness of Craigslist and you have a more-than-accurate picture of our afternoon.

Tomorrow we both have to tend to that foreign concept Americans call Work. Good night and thanks for your lovely comments and emails. You guys warm my heart.

After a lovely night of fried dumplings, riesling, and red velvet cake with my girlfriend of eight years and counting, I came home to the “Animal House,” AKA the name of our newly established internet connection and an accurate description of the state in which we live. No, I’m not over this subject yet. My special moment with the Time Warner guy resulted in zero installation fee on our modem… unless there normally never is one, but I choose to believe I’ve put my feminine powers to good use for the sake of the public (in that they no longer need to see my unshowered self out and about, hovering relentlessly over befuddled patrons of local coffee shops who have selfishly chosen to charge their laptops, of all things, when it’s OBVIOUS my need is much greater).

Since my last update, we’ve accumulated a shower curtain. This helps the bathing situation, but Berlin has taken to urinating on our bath mat. Can’t win ‘em all, right? The ceiling fan still needs to be greased and canned tuna remains my midday meal, but to compensate I dine extravagantly when night falls. Extravagance does not involve nutritional value, I might add — when hunger strikes, carrot cake is usually the first viable option. Guess that whole fresh produce streak from my semester in Cyprus didn’t last long. I’m back to eating more grams of sugar an hour than vegetables a week, as is reflected on my unhappy T-zone. Who’s really surprised?

Due to big-company paperwork crap, I’m not actually in the office yet. I’ve been working from home, which means bad posture, poorly made lattes, a greasy keyboard, and general skankiness. This could also be interpreted as a very real look into my next 10 years, which is abysmally depressing. On the upside, in the comfort of my own shoebox I can rock out to Akon and painfully uncool Top-40 songs, at least until my roommates return and I throw something obscure into the mix, because come on, who do I think I am calling myself a writer, ’cause aren’t we all supposed to listen to angsty underground bands and some oh-so-hip classic rock? Akon aside, I’ve been dutifully fulfilling the intern stereotype of staring at a lot of spreadsheets, but they are meaningful spreadsheets — ones whose principles I firmly believe in, which makes all the difference.

This is where the blogging magic happens, except when my signal gets weak and I clamber out onto the fire escape in desperation.

Some professional writer should surely shoot me for titling my post “A Pretty Fantastic Weekend” — lack of creativity aside, that’s just a douchey title, but that is what it was — a pretty fantastic weekend. As much as I loved Cyprus and loved that I spent more time living and being and relishing than writing about all of it, I do regret the absence of documentation — reading back on the moronic behavior of my youth is among my favorite pastimes. So you’re all going to die a slow and painful death while I attempt to compensate for the past four months with painstaking records of every waking moment in Dear-Diary form from now until September.

In a very large, unsuccinct nutshell — are you ready?:

• had a burrito the size of my head at Blockheads with Jess
• joined AJ and Alex for sangria at a swanky bar in Chelsea
• discussed nerdy internet topics with Nisha and Sam over pad siew
• gave my bosses a convincing performance indicating a reasonable level of competency
• purchased Things Adults Must Buy for Themselves Upon Moving into New Apartments (though I’m not above stealing toilet paper from public places)
• read my copyediting handbook like it was an unreleased sequel to Twilight
• dined expensively midtown with Allen on his tab
• did Friday night at Marquee and Antique with Alana and the girls
• wrote and pitched and conducted informational interviews like the economy is bad
• experienced the splendor of New Jersey via my study abroad girlfriend Tracy’s hysterical family party
• enjoyed a leisurely afternoon of shopping and harassment by my favorite minority-folk in Soho/Chinatown with Dara
• and otherwise did not remove Ass from Bed until 2 p.m. unless absolutely necessary.

My life is one part “glamorous,” as my friends make a point to inform me, and two parts completely laughable. Yes, it’s New York City, and that in itself will always be fabulous.

But earlier tonight, I sat here after having recreated Katrina in our bathroom (no shower curtain) on our bare mattress masquerading as a communal sofa (no furniture) stealing my neighbor’s internet (no wifi), drinking a cheap bottle of red out of hot pink plastic tumblers (no real dishes), eating a can of corn (no cookware or microwave) — all as the ceiling fan squeaked unfailingly upon every half-second rotation (no joke). As evident, most of these problems stem from one thing (no money). ‘Cause when it’s down to dinner or shower curtain, I totally opt for dinner. At least the comedy of it all serves as blog fodder.

Also, since I know you all worry about my mental stability (by that I mean the way in which it correlates directly with the reliability of my wifi signal), I’ll generously provide an update on that situation: “Josh” has now cut us off, “The_Devil” is being rather unreliable, and thus “hajehaus” has been providing the good times. Unfortunately, “hajehaus” runs the way I do on Monday mornings: slowly.

I am counting the days until my Time Warner God in a Human Body arrives. Victory internet shall be mine.

There are entirely too many (paranthetical devices) present in this post. (But it’s my blog so I’ll do what I want.)

I’m still alive.

I’ve officially moved into my glorified closet in the East Village. Actually, to be honest it’s not really even a glorified closet. It’s just a closet. I can literally fit my bed and my suitcases — zero walking room whatsoever. I walk to the kitchen to retrieve my clothes. This is a terrible layout because I typically forget about the clothes and end up bringing peanut butter back to my room instead, only to realize I still need clothes. Yeah.

You have to really love this city to put up with shelling out a grand a month for this. It does put things in perspective — rest assured that my $650/month spacious room in a five-bedroom, three-bathroom house with two-car garage and pool in San Diego will be appreciated beyond belief come fall. Anyway, once you move past the initial shock of the incredulous tininess of my East Village room/GC, the apartment’s actually quite cozy: We’ve got a little kitchen that’s big enough to serve my purposes of making PB&J sandwiches (my provisions for the summer) and opening two-buck Chucks (my liquid provisions for the summer to combat my misery about not having proper sustenance). There’s also a living room with a skeleton of a sofa and a view of brick apartment buildings. Oh, and, get this — when I sit in the corner beneath the window sill, I can stream shaky — but free! — wifi from “Josh” or sometimes “The_Devil.” Ah, the little thrills in life.

My roommates are: Julia, a Delta Gamma from Rhode Island working at Bloomberg, Marisa, a 24-year-old model who loves to bake, Sam, her South African photographer boyfriend, and their mini-Doberman, Berlin. They are all cooler than me. Dog included.

There’s something about this city that makes me fiercely independent, that makes me okay with frequenting sushi bars by myself and takes me on this Must-Accomplish-Everything-and-Further-My-Career mentality. I have more items on my agenda for the next week than I did for four months in Cyprus. I have about two phone appointments, seven coffee dates, three lunches, two dinners, and several strong drinks to be had in the next couple of days. My planner looks revolting, but the productivity is almost refreshing.

Off to make my first PB&J of the day.

PS: Read my article about why you should study abroad in Cyprus.

It’s official — I still suck at this packing thing. When I’m internet-famous, I’m going to hire packing interns whose sole duty will be to uh, pack for me because I hate it.

After a brief stint in the Bay Area that consisted mostly of eating Asian food, reorienting myself on the internet, and spending QT with my mother, I’m flying out tonight to one of my favorite places in the world — the wonderful New York City. People say I’m crazy for traveling so much, but that’s why San Diego gets me antsy; it’s so stagnant. I’m one of those people who can’t be in one place for too long… (strange, seeing as I can be in my bed for an incredible amount of time).

Spending my summer in New York is a financially irrational decision that contradicts everything I’ve ever learned about spending money wisely, especially after oh, I blew a good chunk of my life savings by traveling to 12 countries in the past four months. However, my Gut Instinct tells me it’s right, and I’ve come this far relying on it, haven’t I?

I have strange qualms about my flight. I’m not sure if this is post-Europe anxiety or my flaky “intuition speaking,” but I am weirdly nervous — if something happens, you heard it here first. I also love you, Mom. Thanks for buying all my toiletries for me before I left. (Seriously, I milked her offer unashamedly — threw some nail polish and body scrub in my Walmart cart. She must really love me.)

It feels different this year — unlike my last summer in NYC, this time around, the subway is now my hot and smelly friend, my girlfriends probably won’t have to hand-hold me all the way to my apartment door, I now know the exact location, menu, and hours of about 20 amazing dessert spots, and most importantly, I’m not afraid to give people dirty looks anymore. I actually know more than two people in the entire state, and three of my girlfriends from San Diego will be there, too, so it’s like I’ll have a little piece of home with me.

Still, no matter how many times I see it, that New York City skyline gets my heart racing every time. Some things never change.

I’m excited to work again (forgot what that feels like), to meet New York’s finest writers, internet-peoples, bachelors, and bartenders, to reunite with my study abroad girlfriends — who are ALL seemingly east coasters, and, of course, to eat an offensive amount of dessert. It’s time to start dusting off that Yelp account. After all, I’m Elite for a reason.

…my accomplishments in life are few and far, aren’t they? Ha.

Seeing as the room I’m subletting currently has no internet, and I’m living on the edge (of my bank account), I’ll be blogging from various East Village cafes, attempting to launch a “writing career” (so that’s what they call poverty these days!) — all while sipping on the cheapest beverage on the menu until the busboy forcibly removes me. I’ll let you know how my penny-pinching goes.

Anyway, I can whine about money all I want, but to be honest 2009’s been incredible to me thus far, and I’d be doing myself a disservice not to keep that streak going… so I’m going to. Plus, who doesn’t feel more alive when they’re broke, right?

Here’s to a fabulous summer of cupcakes. And growth. But mostly cupcakes.

Oh and — if you’re in the City between now and the end of August, let me know! I’ll make ramen, you bring dessert?

Boarding now.

Note: This is part five of my travels through Europe during my semester abroad in Cyprus. Read about Berlin, Germany, Prague, Czech Republic/Bratislava, Slovakia, and Vienna/Salzburg in Austria, Dachau concentration camp in Germany, and a night in Strasbourg, France. Luxembourg/Brussels, Belgium.

My favorite city in Europe, and not necessarily for reasons it is notorious for…

Our arrival in Amsterdam coincided quite unintentionally with none other than April 20, 2009. Our trip thus far had been getting progressively better by the city — that is to say I loved each one more than the last, and Amsterdam was no exception. We’ll let the pictures of day 1 speak for themselves:

Student “container” housing in Amsterdam.

We pulled up to our botel, which was as awesome as one might imagine. I had a strong urge to recreate T-Pain’s “I’m on a boat” music video. All parties involved are thankful I resisted.

Our group ferrying from the botel.

Amsterdam at sunset.

Drugs I did not partake in but was nevertheless fascinated by.

At the kiosk — the Dutch love their weed, even in beverage form.

This however is my kind of scene…

We had serious fears that the name of this bar was going to foreshadow the rest of our night…

Kendra, Gabi, and me (with our newly purchased scarves that we were really into).

At a coffeeshop called “The Doors.” Appropriately outfitted with all the Doors paraphernalia one can imagine.

I thought this was important documentary evidence of our night at the time.

The second day in Amsterdam, seemingly packed with the least activity, turned out to be my favorite day of our entire Eurotrip. After a lazy morning we boarded the ferry and rode the trolley to the Van Gogh museum, where we were given audio guides (God’s gift to museum-goers). Like I’ve said many a time before, most museums aren’t my cup of tea, but I guess I can cross seeing “Starry Night” off my life list…

An observation about the Dutch: they are so, so nice. I don’t think I’ve ever met more welcoming and easygoing people in the 20+ countries I’ve visited. From the completely unsleazy guys who bought us drinks to the cyclist whose path Brittany stepped right into — I don’t know if it’s the pot, but everyone was abnormally friendly.

I’m a little in love with Amsterdam.

After some street vendor sandwiches, we strolled through the city to the Anne Frank museum. While it was numbing to see the Dachau concentration camp only days before, walking through the home of a girl whose story we all know so well struck me so much more intensely. Even though we know the horrors that Jews suffered collectively, reading over her words, climbing her stairs, hearing the voices of her father and those who knew Anne via the short clips that were playing… it all punctured on a much more personal level. The space they hid in was actually bigger than I imagined, but I could feel how it would be so psychologically imprisoning with no sound allowed, no light let in… for anyone looking to visit Amsterdam, this is a definite must-stop. I loved the way the museum was set up with artifacts in explanations in each room and Anne’s quotes on the walls.

Later we randomly ventured across a tattoo parlor, where Tracy and I made a spontaneous decision to get tattoos — not that it was completely spur-of-the-moment; I’d be debating it for years. After the tattoo artist sketched up several variations of lotuses as seen in his books, I ended up settling with my own initial drawing, which is how I’d always imagined it.

Contrary to tour-bus rumor, it was not a marijuana leaf.

Tracy fainted minutes after finishing her tat, so needless to say I had fears about the needle and the pain. Though I did probably get mine in non-pain territory, it really just felt like a sharp pencil scratching the surface of my skin — if you can handle say, 20 minutes of eyebrow plucking, you can definitely handle 10 minutes of tattooing.

Here’s a particularly un-enthralling video of me getting my tattoo. Commentary by Brittany Herbeck:

Following that we meandered over to a little Italian restaurant, where pasta took precedence. All we could really do is obsess over the unnaturally distinct life moments we’d experienced (Starry Night, Anne Frank’s home and diary, and our first-ever tattoos?!)

A bout of food poisoning (not mine this time!) later, we headed to the surprisingly un-trashy red light district. Considering my experience with Vegas, the red light district was impressively classy, as a matter of fact. Sex shops, porno stores, cafes, and brothels lined both sides of the street. Lingerie-clad prostitutes stood like mannequins in the windows, luring potential customers into their neon pink domains — but they actually looked pretty disinterested in passerby, with many chatting away on their cell phones. A man trying to sell us his sex show: “Tonight we have the squirt alert show. Front row gets umbrellas!” (I’d never been more thoroughly intrigued.)

I made a genuine effort to take pictures of prostitutes in windows for your viewing pleasure but had low levels of success.

And so ended my favorite day in my favorite place before we were off to the one and only City of Lights.

Note: This is part four to a five- (maybe six?) part account of my travels through Europe during my semester abroad in Cyprus. Read about #1 Germany, #2 Czech and Slovakia, and lastly, #3 Vienna, Salzburg, Dachau, Strasbourg.

The morning before we headed to Luxembourg, we visited the Council of Europe headquarters, based in Strasbourg, France. Despite what we ignorant Americans believed to be Luxembourg’s relative obscurity, it’s kind of important: it was a founding member of the EU, the UN, and NATO, to name a few orgs. Fun fact: it’s also the only country in existence that’s ruled by a Grand Duke. We only had a mere hour there, and thus my experience in the city/country/duchy (duchy: a real word) of Luxembourg was limited to admiring the decor of a Chinese restaurant. And walking past a church. See photo below.

We needed some more Luxembourgian culture (Luxembourgian: also a real word), so I forced a cheesy posed picture upon the girls.

After some quality kung pao chicken, we drove off to Brussels, Belgium. By this point we’d completely adjusted to waking up at ridiculous hours and long bus rides. After this semester, I’m an instantaneous-fall-asleep-in-public aficionado. The girls joke that we could create an entire Facebook album dedicated to me asleep in public. On the bus in Egypt, in a restaurant in France, in a club in Cyprus — I really didn’t discriminate. I’d get on that bus and be drooling on my seat partner — usually Brit, in all of her misfortune — in a matter of seconds.

Here’s Team Explore Brussels: Kendra, Brit, Josh, Gabi, Tamara, Jordan, and little Tracy in front!

Walking through the city at sunset.

Perpetually lost, so we headed into a subway station. The responsible ones are in the background dealing with our disorientation.

Nighttime in Brussels was a treat. (Open alcoholic beverages in public is a go, in case you were wondering.) Distraught by our extreme exhaustion, we almost turned in when we couldn’t find anyplace worthwhile to relax… it’s lucky we didn’t, because an hour later, we finally wandered into the city center. Cobblestone streets were lined with adorable outdoor restaurants and cafes, which we all know are my obsession. The only thing even slightly comparable to it is Little Italy in NYC, but even that mental image wouldn’t do Brussels justice.

Narrow streets of cafes, markets, shops, and more.

Brit and I sat down for people watching, some lobster bisque (8 euro, good grief), and the cheapest bottle on the menu, which was by no means cheap. By this point our ritual of splitting bottles in every city was known far and wide…

The other girls headed to meet Kendra’s friend Laura at a Delirium, a nearby bar.

A pathetic search for open restaurants left us empty-handed and crestfallen. In all of our determination, upon our return to the hotel room, Brit and I tried unsuccessfully to order room service. But in all our determination we must have called the bar, concierge, the maids… Let’s just say when the other girls got back to the hotel and asked for food at the bar, the staff questioned: “Are you the girls trying to order the salmon lasagna?”

The next day, after a stop at the European Parliament building… we got what we wanted though.

Belgium waffles: what DREAMS ARE MADE OF. My dreams, anyway.

An indoor strip of specialized shops, known as the Gallerie du Roi et de la Reine, or King and Queen’s arcade.

Can’t forget the world-famous frites!

…or the chocolate to die for. (It’s not obvious my interest in travel stems from the single cultural aspect that is food, is it?)

The streets we were in love with — by day.

Next up? My favorite city of the entire trip, where windmills and wooden clogs reign supreme…