While offering no shortage of positive things to say about Köln, it is safe to say Kölsch has been substantively completed. Kölsch is over. Forever.
In seeking substantive support for this assertion, one need look no further than the sad state of affairs on Genter Strasse, Cologne, circa 9:18 a.m. Two humans. Zero physical movement. The distinct mouthfeel of sand and silica packets. And more sand.
Naturally, the solution was a couple quick showers, a brisk cup of coffee and a cultural/lingual misunderstanding leading to two grown men sharing a single small bowl of Müsli at a streetside cafe, after which we dadded it on down to the tracks to catch our transfer to Brussels. And running alongside the Paris Nord-bound train, who do we run into? Tom, Deb, Gil and Leanne, heading to what we would later learn was a highly exclusive "business class" cabin, which we have to assume was a complete shitbox. Because we were not allowed in. Because smelled like proletariat.
A quick zip through the countryside later, we arrived at the land of waffles and people that sell waffles because waffles. Seeing an opportunity to dodge that most trite of treats, we dipped into Belgium's lesser known, highly secretive and heretofore completely underground movement of wildly famous and ludicrously well known/highly regarded beers all over the place on every corner always.
The first night in Belgium ended much like all evenings in Belgium: Dinner and drinks among friends and family, followed by two women snorkeling into a flotilla of Dorito barf.
What Stupid Movie are Tim and Colin Falling Asleep To: Alien Versus Predator. Starring Sanaa Lathan and Raoul Bova, who questionably mortgaged the remainder of their careers to act alongside 230 pounds of foam rubber and what I'll preemptively estimate are some less-than-special effects. May their sacrifice always be remembered