Javacurls and I were all revved up for the Free Hugs event in Brussels. We talked on the phone the day before, planning how to get into the city and agreeing to use our art supplies to paint our signs.

Friday afternoon, I happily painted a big sheet of yellow poster board with blue-green letters: Free Hugs!

In the morning, I was thrilled to see the beautiful weather the day delivered. I dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, a black v-neck shirt, and my silver concho earrings from my Oklahoma days. Unafraid of looking too American, I was ready to spread the love. On went the denim jacket, and I waited eagerly for Javacurls to arrive. I was psyched!

E dropped us off at the Metro station and Javacurls and I were glad to get seats on the slightly crowded train. Laughing and chitchatting at first, some of the animation began to drop out of our conversation. Javacurls had this look on her face as she surveyed the masses filling the train and the beggars making their rounds with paper cups.

“V—do you realize what we’re doing? We may have to hug everybody on this train.”

Surrounded by strangers, many of them stony and indifferent, we were no longer feeling the love but the enormity of the commitment to the task ahead. Hmmmm. What the hell were we thinking? Were we really going to stand in the center of the city and hug anyone who approached us?

Javacurls forehead had a little crease in it as she pondered whether we were going to be lambs thrown to lions. The day before we had talked about the boldness of stepping out of our comfort zone, and the possibility we might be hugging someone we felt really uncomfortable touching. Javacurls had said, “Every one deserves to be shown respect.”

Stepping into the DeBrouckere station, we stopped so Javacurls could get a sandwich. It was nearly two o’clock and she hadn’t eaten all day.

We weren’t quite sure which way to go until we spotted another person carrying a Free Hugs sign. We asked her in franglais if she knew where to go, and she wasn’t sure either. We found our way outside to the Place de la Monnaie and looked for other participants. Nothing.

Our newfound partner in hugs, pulled out her cell phone, dialed a number and placed a call. Twelve feet away, a man answered. Our organizer, Didier. Like our partner in hugs, he didn’t speak English, so I worked with my spastic French to tell him where I was from, how long I’d been living in Belgium and inquire how many people were coming. He didn’t know.

Slowly a girl with ruby red hair showed up with a dark haired friend with a nose ring and a big smile. Three young teenage boys galloped into our midst with signs, a woman in a wheelchair arrived, and bit by bit others showed up. Still, we remained a little shy with one another. Parked on a bench in the center of the square, none of us was eager to be the first one to hold our signs aloft and make a spectacle.

The night before I’d invited Cindy Lane to join us. She showed up and was VERY supportive. In her Texas drawl she said, “Have y’all been smoking crack or what? Are you out of your minds? I came down here early to hug you before you get covered with Cooties. There is no quantity of drugs or alcohol that would get me out here with a sign.” (Did I mention Cindy works for a global HUMAN RIGHTS organization?)

I nearly died laughing until we heard the sound of breaking glass behind us and Cindy said, “Are y’all gonna hug the guy that just tossed that beer bottle?”

Oh crap. Maybe I’m not such a big-hearted Grrrl after all. Javacurls looked nervous as she programmed Cindy’s phone number into her cell. We agreed we’d call her later and meet up for drinks.

Then the media began arriving and talking to Didier. Photographers, reporters, broadcast journalists began pointing their cameras our way and so we stepped out into the middle of the crowds with our signs held aloft.

Smile, smile, smile.

Some people avoided eye contact, others looked bemused, and a few came in for hugs. I tried to strike the right expression, friendly but not desperate. A trio of very young teens ran toward me and hugged me and then asked if they were going to be on television. I hugged Brits, Aussies, Belgians, Mexicans and Frenchmen.

An Italian couple made a beeline for me and took turns giving me fabulous hugs while declaring in French, “We’re Italians!” I wanted to tell them I was Italian-American, but I figured my good Roman nose spoke for me. That profile and my big brown eyes are my ticket into the Italian community.

Javacurls sidled up to me and told me she’d been groped. Oops. She looked a little sick.

A woman embraced her and spoke to her in French. Javacurls said, “I wish I knew what people were saying to me.”

So I translated, “It’s a pleasure,” “Are you happy?” "Have a nice day" and “Nice ass!” Java frowned, and I confessed to jerking her chain with the last translation.

Luckily I was hugged, kissed, photographed, but never groped. I did, however, spend a lot of time just standing there trying to catch someone’s eye and lure them in for a free hug without seeming like some psycho-stalker.

A local TV celebrity showed up with a microphone and camera crew and a Free Hugs sign. He attracted lots of attention.

A Dutch woman joined us, her blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as she worked the crowd. She spoke English and told us that people didn’t understand the signs, most of which were in English. Not surprisingly, the French-speaking natives all know the word “Free” but few recognized the word “Hugs.” Not long after she told me this, a middle-aged man leading his young son by the hand came up to me and gestured toward my sign, asking me in French, “What does that say?”

“Calin gratuit,” I replied, hugging myself to make the message clear. I smiled, expecting him to come in for a hug. Instead he looked at me and walked away.

Meanwhile, Javacurls had excused herself to the restroom at the Metro stop, saying she wasn’t feeling well. As time passed, my face began to ache from smiling and I worried about Java. Where was she?

When I spotted her back on the square, she confessed to feeling nauseous. She’d been excited and then nervous about the whole Free Hugs thing, and her empty stomach had started to churn on our way into Brussels. The sandwich she’d eaten hadn’t settled it, but made it feel worse.

She looked green.

“Let’s head home,” I said. But then seeing how ill she looked, I thought the last thing she needed was to get on the Metro.

“Let’s call Cindy and see if she can come get us. I’ll call E from her apartment and he can pick us up.”

Java called Cindy and I got directions to a meeting place at the Bourse. As we headed down the street, I was worried about Java, she seemed unsteady.

“Are you OK?”

“I feel REALLY nauseous.”

We slipped onto a construction site downtown so she could sit.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Well this is a good place to throw up. We’re off the sidewalk and out of sight from most people.”

Not surprisingly, she wasn’t buying into my “It’s OK if you throw up” line.

I told her I was going to go farther down the street to make sure we were heading in the right direction so she wouldn’t have to walk a step farther than necessary. It had been hard to hear Cindy on the cell, and I wasn’t sure I caught all her directions correctly.

I returned to Javacurls and told her I’d spotted a pharmacy down the street. Should we pop in and get something?

No, she didn’t want to do that.

We walked a bit farther before spotting Cindy coming toward us. We followed her back to her apartment, where Java sipped Sprite and chewed Pepto-Bismol tablets and Cindy and I tried to distract her with conversation.

E eventually made it into the city to rescue us and we headed home, covered with Cooties and proud of ourselves for stepping out and embracing our fears as well as the residents of the capital of Europe.