Despite having lived in London for over five years, I haven’t spent more than a few hours in Brussels since I moved here. But I lived and worked in the city for a summer after college, and I couldn’t wait to get back and rediscover some of my favorite places.

I took the Eurostar to Brussels to be interviewed on Peter Greenberg Worldwide Radio. The short journey through the Channel Tunnel and into Europe was a good one, what with getting to share my thoughts about London and Brussels on the air and getting to know the other guests on the show.

When we arrived at the Gare du Midi, I waved good-bye to the others and hopped on a connecting train to the central station. Just across the way was my hotel for the night, Le Meridien Brussels.

They had offered me a stay in one of their newly renovated Delxue rooms, a large space with contemporary design and Le Meridien’s signature emphasis on art.

I settled into my room, then explored the bright lounge and bar area before heading out to do some sightseeing in Brussels. The famous Grand Place was just a few steps away from the hotel, and soon I found myself steeped in history and medieval charm.

From the Grand Place, I walked through the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert, a beautiful covered shopping arcade lined with more Belgian chocolate shops than I’ve ever seen.

Outside was the bustling Rue des Bouchers, a narrow pedestrian street perennially crowded with the tables of so many cafes. Jutting off from there was an alley where the famous Delirium Cafe was located. It was known for serving the widest range of beers of any bar in the world.

Opposite Delirium was a hidden gem of a sightseeing highlight in Brussels, the Jeanneke Pis. The small fountain of a girl peeing was created as a counterpoint to its famous sibling, the Manneken Pis.

Further down towards the Bourse, I passed by Falstaff, a famous Art Nouveau cafe and bar, and crossed the busy Boulevard Anspach to explore the funky shops, boutiques, and restaurants on the other side.

Later, I crossed back through the Grand Place and up to the Grand Sablon, a chi chi square lined with some of the best Belgian chocolate shops in Brussels.

Tempted as I was to indulge, I had a dinner reservation to attend to. Peter Greenberg and his producers invited me to join them for a meal at La Quincaillerie, a funky restaurant in Ixelles set in an old hardware store. The meal featured everything from oysters to Poulet de Bresse, and we got a tour of the kitchen to see the action.

The next morning I had a big buffet breakfast at Le Meridien, then met up with the group from the night before at a nearby chocolate shop called Laurent Gerbaud. Laurent himself took us into his workshop, where he taught Peter how to make mendiants, chocolate discs with dried fruits and nuts on top.

Afterwards Peter interviewed Laurent for his TV show while the rest of us sipped heavenly hot chocolate. Given that the shop offers chocolate making classes, I vowed to return for another weekend in Brussels to try my hand at my own confections.

After cocoa, it was time for lunch. The venue was Bocconi restaurant, which was located right behind the Grand Place. The food was Italian, and we feasted on everything from fried calamari to fresh pasta.

Soon it was time to travel back to London. My trip to Belgium had been way too short, what with the lack of time to visit the city’s excellent museums and taste more of the famous food—Belgian waffles, fries, mussels, and beer to name a few.

But the city is so close to London that I should be able to find an excuse to return for another weekend in Brussels soon. If my travel schedule ever lets up, anyway.

But there’s more to Amsterdam than the Van Gogh museum, more to the area than windmills and tulip gardens. Two of the things that made it extra special over this particular weekend were a couple of good friends from San Francisco.

I hadn’t seen either of them in awhile, so I hopped on the Eurostar on Friday afternoon and made my way to Brussels. After a couple hours of revisiting my favorite places in the city and eating a heart-healthy cone of ketchup-smothered fries, I took an ill-fated bus to Amsterdam.

‘A bus?’ you ask. Yes, a bus. In a moment of Pinot Noir-induced insanity during the planning stages of my trip, I convinced myself that paying seven euros for a bus to Amsterdam would result in a positive travel experience.

It didn’t. The bus failed to show up until fifteen minutes after the scheduled departure time. Then I spent four hours and fifteen minutes listening to the driver’s loud Reggae, watching Michael Jackson’s This is It on the overhead TV, and witnessing an unrehearsed sing-along when Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” came on.

After all the regular stops and one unscheduled stop at a rest station on the side of the road, I staggered off the bus at Amstel station in Amsterdam 45 minutes late.

From there I met my friends at a bar called ‘t Dokertje for a much needed drink. Well, drinks. Between Belgian, Dutch, and even a few American beers, we went from bar to bar sampling the local genever and everyone’s least favorite shot, Jager.

It goes without saying that we slept in on Saturday morning. I was staying with one of my friends who is in business school in Amsterdam, and when we finally got going in the morning she took me across the city center to a brunch place she thought I would like.

On the way, I re-discovered another brunch place. My boyfriend had taken me there for breakfast on my birthday in Amsterdam two years ago. We had long forgotten both the name and location of Puccini, but hadn’t forgotten its amazing food. I was glad to have found it again.

Ironically, when we reached our brunch destination on this Saturday morning I realized that my boyfriend had also taken me there on the same weekend we went to Puccini. It was called Pancakes! In both cases we went there to eat pancakes.

Last time I dove into American-style pancakes, but this time I went for the Dutch variety. The thin plate-sized crispy pancake was filled with onions, cheese, and bacon. Despite a long wait for the food I couldn’t have asked for a more delicious breakfast in Amsterdam.

When we finished eating we walked through the funky Jordaan district. My friend was taking me to the Noordermarkt, where there was reportedly a man that made while-you-wait stroopwaffles. I was in no way hungry, but my dessert stomach was agitating for the thin caramel-filled waffles, and I couldn’t tell it no.

The market was large and featured row after row of tantalizing culinary goods, including mountains of Dutch cheeses, breads, and herring. (Okay, so the herring only tantalized the locals and the visiting Scandinavians, but the rest of it looked good to me.)

Further along we discovered market stalls selling everything from wasabi peanuts to wrinkled textiles. Among this mish mash of market mongers we found our stroopwaffel man. He smothered caramel between two freshly made waffle halves, and we savored the sweet sticky warmth until it was no more.

Moving on from the market, we headed south to the Vondelpark. A huge expanse of green space that always reminds me of the more manicured bits of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, the lawns were packed with picnickers, bikers, and even wedding parties smiling up at the sun.

After a glass of rosé at the Blue Teahouse in the Vondelpark, we headed north up the busy canals to Oosterdokseiland. Along the way a cold rain started falling, and by the time we got to the Amsterdam Public Library we were using my friend’s pink Pashmina as an umbrella.

The building was a contemporary construction with interiors reminiscent of Rem Koolhaus’ Seattle Public Library. Modern and future-forward in every facet from the facade to the free WI FI, the Amsterdam Public Library was the perfect place to escape the plundering rain. On the seventh floor there was a cafe, and we sat sipping mint tea as we admired the views of Amsterdam through the downpour.

Braving the rain again, met up with the rest of our group from the previous evening at the NH Schiller hotel bar in Rembrandtplein. We caught up and dried off over a glass of claret, then walked down the street to dinner.

In another instance of culinary deja vu, our dinner was at Tempo Doeloe, an Indonesian restaurant that my boyfriend had taken me to for a surprise Rijsttafel dinner on our last trip to Amsterdam. I had suggested it to my friend visiting from Atlanta, who is a fellow foodie. She was convinced, and so we found ourselves at a table for seven with twenty five delicious plates in front of us.

Two hours later we were stuffed full of an array of diverse dishes that ranged from mild vegetables in peanut sauce to punishingly spicy chicken with hot yellow peppers. Despite a bottle of amazingly disappointing wine, we enjoyed every small portion on the table.

The next morning was my third and final foodie redux. Having shared with my friends my excitement about rediscovering Puccini, we decided to meet up there for Sunday brunch.

After getting thoroughly soaked by the rain on the way to the cafe, six of us gathered around a table in the small whitewashed room. There we holed up for two hours enjoying one of the best brunches I’ve had in a long time.

I started with a hot chocolate that consisted of a glass of steamed milk and a one inch cube of solid Belgian chocolate on a stick. I stirred the creamy cocoa goodness into the cup to make my own delicious drink, and finished every sip before I even ordered my food.

Breakfast was scrambeled eggs with toast and some of the most flavorful smoked salmon I’ve ever tasted. Having eyed the giant strawberry tarts in the window when I arrived, I split the meal with my friend so as to save room for dessert. As I savored each soft bite of fresh strawberry-marzipan goodness, I was glad I did.

When we finally forced ourselves up from the table it was already time for me to travel by bus back to Brussels. Unfortunately my bus didn’t feel much like cooperating. It arrived an hour and fifteen minutes late, leaving me very worried that I would miss my connection to the last Eurostar of the night from Brussels to London.

Between the long wait, the depressing waiting room, the rain, and the incredibly hostile Eurolines staff at Amstel station, the phrase “you get what you pay for” repeated loudly in my head.

When the bus finally arrived, the driver took his time getting us out of Amsterdam. We finally got underway as he talked loudly to himself and swigged soda while swerving onto the shoulder of the highway. The further we got from Amsterdam, the increasingly unnerved and disconcerted I felt by the whole terrible Eurolines bus experience.

Then, after going 110kph through pouring rain and completely skipping a scheduled stop, the driver had us in Brussels a mere six (6!) minutes after our stated arrival time. I don’t know who draws up the Eurolines bus timetables, but I will assume they are at least as crazy as the people the company puts behind the wheel.

With two hours in Brussels before my Eurostar to London, I walked from the Gare du Nord to the Gare du Midi. I stopped off at a few shops along the way to pick up a gift for my boyfriend, who was celebrating his birthday the next day and who was very relieved to hear that I wouldn’t have to spend half of it in Brussels.

When I finally made it to the Gare du Midi I flashed my Carte Blanche and collapsed into a sleek orange-and-gray chair in the lounge. With me came a glass of too-young red wine and a heaping plate of olives and peanuts that I would call my dinner.

It was my first meal of the trip that wasn’t a repeat of my last visit to Amsterdam. Although I don’t have a pressing need to return to the lovely Dutch city anytime soon, a bad final dinner is a good enough reason if an opportunity presents itself.

Just remind me not to take the bus to Amsterdam next time.

Within seconds, the light bulb in my head lit up and I was on the Eurostar website booking my next trip: Luxembourg! The tiny duchy would have the privilege of hosting my one-day epic journey to country number 50.

A few weeks later, I woke up at 4:15am to catch the first Eurostar of the day from St. Pancras. Off I went, jetting through the English countryside, through the Channel Tunnel, and out into Belgium. I arrived in Brussels with 20 minutes to buy a ticket and some breakfast and hop on my next train. Then came the sluggish 3-hour journey to the fabled duchy of 50th-country lore.

It wasn’t all bad. The fall colors in Belgium rivalled those of beautiful New England as the train chugged slowly through ravines of brilliantly colored foliage. There were tiny lakes and small villages, as well as plenty of cows and sheep grazing lazily in sunny green pastures. When that wasn’t enough, I had The Economist to entertain me.

The train spit me out into the misty rain of Luxembourg City just before 1pm. Walking into the station, I noticed that the lights were off and the power was out. Wasn’t this supposed to be the country with the highest nominal GDP per capita in the world?

Undeterred by the lack of electricity, I walked from the station to the old town munching on a tuna panino and taking in the gorgeous autumn leaves in the deep gorge of the Petrusse Valley. I crossed the Pont Adolphe and headed into the city center.

Luxembourg’s old town is a perfect story-book village, complete with cobbled streets, ivy-clad castle ramparts, and Louis Vuitton stores. I spent some time wandering aimlessly through quiet town squares and past the Palais Grand-Ducal, then found myself at the edge of the city at the casemate walls.

The casemates offered a stunning view of the Grund quarter below, where the city plunges dramatically into a ravine with a quiet river flanked by historic churches and monasteries. I followed the walls until I reached the Cathedral, at which point the sun came out and made the entire city sparkle in post-rain splendor.

Back on the train, I passed three more hours with my trusty Economist on the way to Brussels. It was dark when I arrived at the Gare Central, but I knew exactly how I wanted to spend the two hours before my Eurostar back to London: eating.

I left the gare and took a nostalgic walk past the apartment where I lived when I was working in Brussels, then high-tailed it to my favorite frites stand for a greasy paper cone filled with ketchup-smothered fries.

Frites in hand, I walked through the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert, a beautiful covered market in the city center. Passing by Neuhaus, one of the great Belgian chocolatiers, I couldn’t resist buying some sweets for the trip home. My favorite? The Tintin tins!

I headed out of the galleries and walked to the Grand Place, by far the most stunning site in Brussels. The historic architecture was illuminated in the night by hanging lights, and it made me nostalgic for my days of living in the EU capital.

Stuffed full of fries but unable to resist eating more, I stopped for a Belgian waffle. Munching and walking, I made my way to a restaurant that was one of my favorites during my time in Belgium. There I enjoyed a Kriek beer with my good friend The Economist. Yes, we spent a lot of quality time together on this trip.

My Eurostar back to London felt long after such an extensive day of train travel. Arriving at St. Pancras at 10:30pm with three new passport stamps, three different countries, and 11 hours of train travel in one day, I took the tube home to Hampstead and fell into bed.

Country number 50 was quite a journey for one day of traveling. To prevent myself from repeating it anytime soon, I sent in my passport for renewal yesterday. No international travel for this Lady for 15 business days.