You would think that signing a tenancy agreement would be a simple thing. Reader, it took all day.
The agency was obviously chosen by the owners for their own proximity. Oostkamp is a genteel town some way outside of Brugge and not the easiest place in the world to reach. One bus an hour on Saturdays from Brugge station, and that bus was showing dangerous signs of not turning up. Unfortunately the only option was an €18 taxi. Most of the morning seemed to be taken up with a drily heaved panic. Would I get to Gare Centrale on time? (Yes.) Would I find the ticket machine? (Only just.) Would I even catch the train? (Again, only just, due to platform change and mass galloping exodus.) Would I catch the bus to Oostkamp? (Apparently not. Thank goodness for cheerful expensive taxis, eh.) Would Mr and Mrs Gent Apartment like me or would they change their mind at the last minute and throw me derisively onto the busless streets of Oostkamp? (It was fine.)
Two hours at the agency though. Well the contract was in Dutch innit, so the agency had to explain everything to unpolyglot me.
And then THREE FUCKING HOURS to get back. I'd quite like to sleep and think about my leaded windows and the logistics of getting furniture up a rope to the back window. But I'm babysitting. Leaded window dreams will wait.