(due to lack of inspiration i translate here something i wrote in Greek back then on my first week in Belgium)
People here kiss three times.
They drink beer
and talk quietly.
A strange smell comes from the
other flats making me nauseous. I try to guess the cuisine, Indian may be.
At the first sachet of ready-made
Mediterranean sauce rice it reveals itself.
Cuisine: junk.
The jenever has really hit me. I am a bit
dizzy.
At the street still lies the vomit of a drunken
guy from last night’s party. The little girl that passes me by pulls up her
white cape not to get it dirty.
Her little basket was full of sweets.
The round has been fruitful.
Trick or treat? In a foreign custom of
consumerism.
But why not? A bit of cultural stir-up.
There is always something lost in
translation. But why not?
I think the beer after the jenever was not
a good idea. Never mix up drinks my dad used to say.
It’s night and the sky is white. What
would that mean? Wear my thick jacket tomorrow I assume?
Luckily I don’t need to drive. Cause I am
pretty dizzy.
At the smell of the ready-made food add my
burnt cheese. I have never been careful with the details.
Mascara has left discretely its marks on
my fingers. I always forget the make-up.
I think I will sleep. The room is a bit
blurry. Even pretty.
It’s the jenever.
