Flying Goannas

I never pick up hitchhikers when I’m alone. Never.
Who knows why I stopped for the young Belgian couple? Their van, it turned out, had broken down about 100 metres from our house. When I dropped them off half an hour later we were friends and had swapped contact details. They insisted we must stay with them when we visited Belgium.
We hadn’t planned to go to Ghent, but we’re glad we did.
Arriving at peak hour, we had no reliable map, no GPS, only the vaguest idea where to go and my inability to reliably navigate and relay directions. Despite my best efforts we found the right place.
The narrow paved lane was lined with quaint, narrow houses. Pot plants and hanging baskets sprinkled colour and cooled the little street on the hot summer evening. Outdoor settings, hinting at the semi-communal nature of life, waited for residents to come home and enjoy a pre-dinner drink.
Our friends’ rented home near the end of the lane had three floors, which might sound impressive but each floor only had one room.
The ground floor was the kitchen, cluttered but functional. Most of the floor space was taken up by the small table.
The middle floor was their bedroom. We weren’t going to share their bed.
The top floor was the bathroom. There was nothing for it but to put a mattress in there for us.
And, you know, it was more comfortable than many expensive hotel beds.
The uncomfortable part was climbing down the almost-ladder through their bedroom as we’d sneak out to make our morning coffee. Then we sat outside enjoying the stillness and listening to the neighbourhood slowly wake.
For many people, space is an unaffordable luxury. A garden is a cluster of pot plants rather than half the yard. If you actually have a car in this area of cyclists and pedestrians, parking is on-street and metered.
We could have turned up our noses at the idea of sleeping in a bathroom. We would have completely missed Ghent.
The impromptu street party would have happened without us. Someone else would have eaten our waffles. Marc might not have visited the bell tower. Pizza ... late night drinks ... new friends. We’d have missed three of the best days of our holiday.
When Marc and Simona bought their own house I jokingly asked them for a photo of the bathroom so we’d know if we’d be comfortable when we visited. But, it seems, next time we’ll have a bedroom.
We’re good friends now so I guess we’ll tolerate that luxury.
I can’t wait to find out what happens next time I break one of my own rules.