Anslo: a wedding, the wrong airport and sandals in October
Four days in the Netherlands for the wedding of two friends from Burgas: a flight to the wrong airport, the last pizza in Eindhoven, and a campsite instead of a B&B.
Early November 2026
Two weeks in a coliving. First we annoyed each other, then it turned out we were on the same level of humour and beer. Bratwurst and ketchup, basically. Next thing I knew, I was invited to their wedding.
Two people I met at Burgas Coliving this year invited me to their wedding. In the Netherlands. At the end of a 2,500 km motorbike ride that had taken me as far south as Olhão. So I celebrated arriving by flying almost all the way back.
The cheap flight went to Eindhoven, which I had read as Rotterdam. A cab, a non-refundable capsule hotel I never saw and a new hotel later, every cent the flight had saved was gone. The cab did get me to Pizzani just in time for the last pizza of the night. Literally the last one.
Their planning luck turned out to match mine, so instead of a bed and breakfast we were on a campsite near Anslo. Didn’t matter. Friends, a Dutch breakfast and a genuinely good landscape. The sandals stayed on, chilly or not.
Groningen gave me my first really fresh pastel de nata, after months in Portugal, and a burned mouth to go with it. Also the eierbal: a boiled egg in curry paste, deep-fried. Makes no sense on paper. Makes complete sense with a beer.
The wedding put me between a Dutch-speaking family and a Spanish-speaking one, and I fully expected it to go badly. It didn’t. The day after, I was the only one without a hangover, thanks to the groom’s own advice from Burgas: Argentinians drink and eat. I did. He didn’t.
The train back to Eindhoven airport cost two euros. The cab had cost fifty. Let that be a lesson.