hostage at my own hotel

i'm being stalked by the waiter at my hotel in brussels.

"are you an airliner?" he asked. (um, do i look like a boeing 747?) "we get a lot of stewardesses at this hotel."

"er, no..."

"well, i would like to show you brussels."

i ordered the red mullet - and no, that is not a popular haircut among male redheads - with rocket salad and a glass of red wine. ("rouge? are you sure? not blanc?" - apparently i was committing a cardinal sin by ordering red with seafood.)

and then i signed the bill, charging it to my hotel room.

the next night, as i was changing into pajamas and watching "mission impossible" dubbed into french (how strange to see a french actress, emmanuelle beart, speaking english dubbed back into her native french...), there was a knock at my door.

i froze. didn't answer it. pretended i wasn't there and just left the TV on full blast like a wasteful american. phone rang. doorbell. phone. doorbell. phone. doorbell.

now i'm in hiding in my own hotel room.

(don't worry, i've escaped, and am heading out now to have chocolates for lunch - yes! - at wittamer at the beautiful grand-place.)