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Getting to Bruxelles: The very first day of the trip. 08/09-11/2021
Actually getting here felt like a feat. The hardest part was the packing. We had three weeks between when we returned from Mexico and left for Belgium, and we spent most of that time packing up our stuff–treasures, clothes, art, and loads of junk–for storage, getting the house ready to rent, and preparing our gear and our bikes. My dad spent two days and the night in between completely taking apart our bikes in order to box them up and check them in as regular baggage (we’re travelling on folding bikes in hopes that it’ll make taking trains and staying in hotels less complicated). Long story short–on Monday at noon with only six hours left to go until our flight, we had a living room sprawled with gear that needed to be packed up into four large suitcases (in the end we had to make it five). The odds were against us. With so much left to do, so many loose ends to tie up in so little time, my parents reached a point of despair, and became convinced we weren’t going to make it. There was even talk of cancelling the flight and leaving next week instead. That was the moment I realized it was up to my brother and I to keep it together and take over. Any chance of us getting to the airport depended on whether we could stay calm, focused, and take care of all of the details still in our way. Talk about intensity. But push forward we did, and bit by bit we managed to cram everything into our bags and clean up (sort of). We rallied the troops together for one final push, and together the four of us got everything– bikes, instruments, luggage, and humans– into a Zipcar van and raced to the airport. We made it there with barely an hour to spare. Luckily, despite the fact that we showed up at the wrong terminal and had to run with three fully-loaded carts of baggage to the other side of the airport, checking in went surprisingly smoothly. Unfortunately, my dad still had to return the rented van back to Cambridge. So while he zoomed back to the city, the rest of us crossed our fingers that there wasn’t any traffic, passed through security, and ran to the plane. My brother and I boarded with the instruments and suitcases (my arms were killing me), while my mother stayed at the gate to wait. We found our spots, and I began strapping my cello in its seat (we ended up having to buy it a ticket, a transaction which took about two weeks of being on hold with TAP Air Portugal to complete). As I fumbled around with its seatbelt, I began to worry. What if my parents didn’t make it? I figured I’d have to camp out in Brussels Airport with my brother until they caught up. I kept fiddling with the seatbelt and reclining button to try and buy us some time. One by one, the other passengers finished stowing their luggage and sat down, until it was just my brother and I left standing. Brussels Airport is probably where I’d still be if the stars hadn’t aligned, and my mother hadn’t convinced the flight attendants to wait and let my father board the plane. Miraculously, about ten minutes after we’d been scheduled for take-off, I turned around and saw my parents making their way down the aisle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Five minutes later, we were in the air. I realized I could breathe again. But I still couldn't believe it. None of us could. But believe it or not, that was the start of the trip :) After a much-needed four-hour repose in Lisbon Airport, we hopped on the second plane and finally made it to Brussels airport. Little did we anticipate the trials we’d face to finally exit together through those glass sliding doors and bike to the city center. Pro-tip: never underestimate the time it takes to pack and unpack. We were caught off-guard twice in one day–first in Boston, then again in Brussels. When we got to the airport, we had to unpack all our bags and repack all that gear into panniers and dry-bags, and mount it on our bikes, which we had to reassemble. Sounds simple, maybe, but it most definitely was not. It took us almost ten hours to set everything up. At some point in the afternoon, my mother and I took a taxi to Brussels to pick up the keys to the airbnb and find food. We succeeded in the first endeavor, less so in the second since most stores were closed and we didn’t have cash. We spent half an hour dashing between stores, until a kind shop owner took one look at us and said, “you need to eat,” and gave us a free baguette. Then we headed back to the airport and dove right back into packing. Finally at around 2 AM, we triumphantly rode out the airport doors and into the parking lot, only to get lost looking for the exit onto the bike path. About an hour later, we were finally riding home with all our stuff, down dark paths towards a city which had yet to reveal itself in the pitch black of a cold, quiet night. We rode through narrow graffitied tunnels and winding paths in the woods where all I heard were crickets, the spinning wheels of our bikes, and the occasional rustling of leaves. Creepy. Looking back on it, that ride was very sketchy in all respects. Hardly any light, lugging hundreds of kilos, not a soul to be found (luckily), and totally sleep-deprived. What were we thinking? That’s just it–we weren’t thinking. All the more dangerous, I suppose. But all we wanted in that moment was to reach a safe, cozy place to rest. After a two-hour ride, we actually made it to the place. We carried our bags and bikes up three flights of stairs, and finally hit the sack. And that was our first 72-hour-long day of this trip. Comments are closed.
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