Belgian Nights

(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.