Fear and Loathing in Brussels

Anywho, I was pretty pumped to have the Starbucks oasis appear to me as I approached my gate here in Brussels. But like most Americans abroad, I was fooled. Yes, it had all the symptoms of the Seattle-based coffee giant: abundant branding, signs that look like chalkboards, the typical menu of lattes and mochas and other B.S., but it was just a front. My grande soy latte did not taste like the one I get everyday on Edinger Ave in Orange County (yeah, I know, I sound like a yuppie douchebag, but you have to try and hold on to anything that feels like home); instead, it tasted like motor oil freshly drained from a ‘78 Ford pickup with 450,000 miles on it. And now, my chest feels like some Euro stomped on it with his Pumas. Plus, I’m relatively certain my bags arent going to make it to Bologna. Sure, I have my cameras and computer, so everything is fine for race coverage…but I may offend anyone I interview with my excessively stank clothes.

So, there’s really no other point to this blog other than to kill time while I wait for this puddle jumper to take me to the land of the Vatican, gondolas, pasta, and, at least for this weekend, motocross.

Stay tuned. I’m going to attempt some video blogging….we’ll see what happens.

Skinny