I was trying to think of some kind of like, do-de-l-l-do-l-l-do-l-l-do-d-l-d-l.

Like, foreign correspondent, Bruce Beldin, checking in from Brussels.

I know, there's no like war, there's no war scene in Brussels.

Brussels.

Oh, my God.

Not until I get there.

Get my hands on that place. No, Liz, you got to get there. This place is a battleground.

No, Liz, you got to understand this morning.

In fact, last night when I was, I was, you know, sashing my little ass down the street before I got to the street to do my little sasset number in the lobby of this hotel, which by the way, hotels in Europe are hostels. They are

not hotels. They're hostile to you. They are extremely hostile to me. At the bottom was maybe

40 blokes, like British lads, but they're all 50. And they are... The British tourist is a scourge on this earth.

It is crazy.

They're all wearing these like matching kind of long short and like long shirt combinations.

They are all balding in ways that I didn't think hair could do.

Like I didn't know that hair could be in some places and not in other places in that

particular.

It's like camouflage.

And they are having a pint and a laugh.

When I finally get home last night at just midnight, not even that late, the street,

the Belgian road, the cobblestone in front of my hotel, slick with vomited potato.

These Brits had come back and just thrown up en masse to use a French-Belgian word.

And really an American Tex-Mex one.

...