My dad looked embarrassed. It is a mask he wears often. Everyone in the room started laughing after the hotel employee told us that the box in the closet was a safe and not a microwave—the meat sandwich we brought back for our grandmother laid inside, secure, and uneaten. I was sure after we left that Belgium was not the same country that saw us arrive. Two disagreeable adults, two teenagers in the apex of apathy, and a grandmother in a wheelchair drawing some unfair comparison between that country and hers. And wait until I tell you about Paris.