Once the plane landed in Brussels, I made a concerted effort to boost my morale. But, my friends, life's crap machine continued to grind, and combined with my travel weariness, I have yet to achieve a happy state. On the train, every girl and boy scout (they pronounce it "scoot") in the whole of Belgium was in my car on their way to a Saturday outing. Scoots everywhere. In the aisles. Under the seats. Passing the time by playing 1000 Bournes and screaming. A virtual storm of loud and wiggly scoots.
I arrived at the conference center more than ready for a nap and a shower. Unfortunately, the conference's so-called organizers have no ability to do so. After much toe tapping and urging by me to fix the problems (which included me not being in the room with the correct person, but rather a woman I have not yet met, a stranger, from Egypt, and her having the only key to said room, and no one being able to find her), I moved into the room and burst into weary travel tears at everything and nothing. An odd state for me, because I'm fairly travel flexible. I think maybe being in Europe (as opposed to Rwanda or East Timor or Cambodia, all of which I'd be much happier in–Europe doesn't do much for me), I expected some level of order, and that expectation resulted in frustration.
Frustration that, thus far, no amount of whoops and hollers and hugs from Chile and Bali, India and Bangladesh, Canada and New Zealand, have rectified.