It’s 3am in Brussels, and I’m trapped in a bathroom stall in a bar somewhere downtown; wondering how the hell it came to this. I’ve only been in Belgium for 24 hours for god’s sake. I’m exhausted, my legs are aching, I’m far too sober, and the door simply won’t budge.
Our night started out well enough. Antonia took me to the center of town around 9pm and introduced me to the wonders of Belgian beer. Then we met up with some of Antonia’s friends from university.
Only two of them spoke fluent English, so I stuck with them. One of them couldn’t drink because it was Ramadan and he remained sober the entire night. The other had a strong French accent and the hint of a goatee, and he liked me very much. He bought a bottle of Captain Morgan, which he carried around with him, and quickly got drunk. He stuck two cigarettes in his mouth and tried to smoke both at the same time. The pack also included a flirtatious Spaniard and a tall Dutch-speaking Belgian with a wolfish grin.
We went to a few pubs, but most were packed full, so we had to pass around drinks while loitering in the alleys outside. When everyone was sufficiently tipsy, we walked to the Grand-Place. This is the gothic heart of the city, where Victor Hugo (author of Les Miserables) once lived in political exile. The ornate, gilded facades were illuminated and towered above us. The Belgian and EU flags hung over our heads.
We sat on the ground in the middle of the cobblestone square. A few stray tourists wandered around us like pigeons. I sat between the two English-speaking boys, and we talked and passed Captain Morgan around, while I admired my surroundings.
A group of students our own age approached our circle and asked in English if they could join us. Our circle doubled in size. The newcomers were Austrian, and only one of them was fluent in English and decently sober; so he translated for the others. He wore a snazzy leather jacket and had a long, blonde ponytail.
Another one of the Austrians was a short boy with the eyes of a madman behind round glasses. We were deciding on a drinking game to play, and this boy wanted everyone to participate in a circle-jerk instead. When no one was interested, he became bored with us and wandered away. I was left to explain to the Belgians what a ‘circle-jerk’ was.
The drinking game we settled on involved going around in a circle and counting. Every time someone messed up and said the wrong number, they had to take a drink. The problem was that everyone counted in a different language, so no one knew what was happening and everyone had to take a drink anyway. The drinking game ended when the police showed up and told us we had to disperse.
One of the English-speaking Belgians - the sober one - tried to round up a group to get some fries. He caught sight of the crazy-eyed Austrian boy and said:
“Hey Austrian boy, do you want to come with us?”
The Austrian boy responded:
“Hey Belgian boy, I want to see your big fat cock!”
Then he dissolved into maniacal cackling. The sober Belgian boy turned to me, exasperated.
By the time we were standing around in the street eating fries, it was around 2am. The group had dwindled to Antonia, the Dutch boy, the two English-speaking Belgians, and myself. I was tired and ready to call it a night, but Antonia was drunker than I was and she wasn’t tired yet. She and the Dutch boy raced each other down the street.
Then we went to a bar with music playing and danced. After that we went to another bar and danced some more. The floors were sticky and the bars stank of beer and sweat. Everyone was drunk and stumbling into each other. I was getting tired of it, and I escaped to the women’s toilet. When I tried to open the stall door to leave, I found the lock was jammed.
That’s how I ended up getting stuck in this bathroom stall. No matter how I shove and kick at the door, it won’t budge. I’ve tried messaging Antonia, but she’s drunk and busy dancing. She isn’t going to see the message anytime soon. I allow myself a few moments to slump against the stall door. Then I start to strategize.
The bathroom stall doors in this country are different. They go all the way down to the floor, so there’s no way to crawl under and the floor is disgusting anyway. It’s shiny with mystery liquid. The only way out is over the top. I test the strength of the toilet paper dispenser, hoping to use it as a step stool. It’s almost come loose from the wall, definitely unstable - which means I only get one shot at my escape maneuver.
I stand up on the toilet seat, then I step on the toilet paper dispenser and get my arms over the top of the stall door. The toilet paper dispenser cracks and breaks under my boot as I hoist myself over the top of the stall. It falls apart and the toilet paper roll unravels on the ground as I land on the other side of the stall door. Some drunk girls who just entered the bathroom gawk at me.
I’m ready to leave now. I reunite with Antonia and the boys, and we head back out into the night. It’s after 3am and the streets are quiet. We wander up the hill to look at the nocturnal view from Mont des Arts. The only other people around are the security guards outside the American embassy. They glare at us when we pass them, clutching their assault rifles.
The boys piss on the wall of some random government building. Then we finally call Ubers so we can go home and sleep. While we wait for our rides, the Dutch boy sprawls in the middle of the sidewalk. We all sit down with him, completely exhausted.
“Welcome to Belgium,” he says to me, grinning his wolfish grin.
“Yeah,” I say to him, “no shit.”
Read more about Victor Hugo in Brussels here: https://theculturetrip.com/europe/belgium/articles/in-the-footsteps-of-victor-hugos-brussels-days/
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